Wounded With His Wounded Heart
by HarmonyLover
Summary: John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes - just in case that wasn't clear. Post-Reichenbach reunion fic, character study, Johnlock, with appearances by Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of _Sherlock_; it all belongs to the BBC, Ryan Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended. All of the dialogue from "The Reichenbach Fall" likewise belongs to the writers.

**Author's Note: **Yes, I know, I need another WIP like a hole in the head – or in the wall. I can't help it. I'm beginning to find that character study is really what I do – my stories are not about the action so much as they are about _why_ the characters behave the way they do. I love illuminating conversation, and there is a lot of it in here. Those of you looking for case fic, this is probably not going to be your cuppa – but this is unabashedly Johnlock, and also post-Reichenbach. Appearances by Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly at the very least. This has not been Brit-picked by anyone other than myself, so corrections and kindness appreciated. As always, many thanks to the wonderful WickedforGood13, who is my best cheerleader, beta, and lovely friend.

* * *

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart**

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driven.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

For as from me on him his hurt did light,

So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart and I have his.

~Sir Philip Sidney, Song From _Arcadia_

* * *

"The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it," Ella began softly.

"Yeah."

"Say it now," his therapist requested.

"I'm sorry, I can't," John said, swallowing hard as tears threatened to fall from his eyes yet again. He had lost count of the tears he had shed while he was alone, the hours he had spent awake at night, seeing Sherlock fall over and over again, but he'd be damned if he'd break down in front of other people. He could accept sympathy and appreciate it when it was expressed, but he wanted no part of anyone's pity. He was only here today because Mrs. Hudson had made the appointment (she'd found Ella's number in his phone; she'd obviously learned a little too well from Sherlock) and pleaded with him to go.

But the things he hadn't said – he wasn't sure he would ever be able to voice them, now. The person they were meant for was dead, and even when Sherlock was alive, John hadn't been able to find the words.

* * *

He tried.

When he was awake at night, sometimes he would attempt to write. Sometimes he started a blog entry, sometimes a letter to Sherlock, anything to get the thoughts out of his head. He began a million ways – with his impressions from the first time he had met Sherlock at Bart's, with the odd and hostile conversation he'd had with Irene Adler in the warehouse, with his own anger. But inevitably he would end up crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it into the fireplace. Watching each of his attempts burn to ash seemed appropriate.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

Moriarty had succeeded in that, and John wondered if he had known that he was destroying two hearts instead of one. He was sure the bastard would have taken a sick, perverse pleasure from the thought.

He hadn't succeeded in destroying Sherlock, though, not entirely. With the recovery of Moriarty's body and his phone, which seemed to be the only device he consistently used to run his empire of crime, Lestrade and the Yard had begun to dismantle his network, piece by slow piece. (Had Moriarty appreciated the irony that he was like Jennifer Wilson in any way?) Sherlock's name had been cleared. The _Times_ had run a long, apologetic expose detailing Moriarty's crimes, his farce of a trial, and the accomplishments of the consulting detective who had made the ultimate sacrifice in order to bring him to justice.

There were two things that didn't make sense. The first was that Moriarty had apparently killed himself – a handgun was found with him, containing only his prints, and it was beyond John to figure out why. Had he killed himself before or after Sherlock had jumped? If it had been before, why had Sherlock still gone through with his suicide? John could only hope that somewhere in all of the information the Yard was uncovering on Moriarty, there would be answers.

The second strange thing was that Sherlock's phone, the one he had last spoken on and that John had distinctly seen him throw behind him, was not found on the rooftop. Greg wondered whether there had in fact been someone with Moriarty and Sherlock, someone else who was there to ensure that Sherlock jumped or otherwise ended up dead, or someone who was meant to carry on Moriarty's work in the event of his death and had retrieved the phone before the police got to the crime scene.

Greg also wondered whether John could have been mistaken about where Sherlock had thrown the phone. John knew he wondered, wondered whether John's perceptions had been distorted by fear and grief, but the DI never said anything to him, just as John never enquired about the progress the Yard was making with pulling apart Moriarty's web. Greg sent him occasional brief updates without being asked – another flat raided, another associate charged and jailed, another hard drive found. It was meager comfort, a sharp splinter of satisfaction in otherwise cheerless days.

John also never asked how much Mycroft involved himself in the work Greg was doing, even though he was sure the elder Holmes was devoting every moment of his days to the same end, with all of the frightening, ruthless intensity of which he was capable.

John didn't want to know. He wasn't sure he would be able to tolerate Mycroft's presence ever again. He was certain the man must still be keeping tabs on him, but John wanted nothing to do with him.

He'd come perilously close to punching Mycroft at the funeral.

He thought Sherlock would have been amused if he had.

If he wasn't trying to write on the nights he couldn't sleep, or woke from nightmares of blood on the ground and blank, lifeless blue-grey eyes, he found himself simply wandering around the flat. He hadn't moved many things – hadn't been able to – and so he would wander, running his fingers over the skull on the mantelpiece, over the arms and back of Sherlock's chair, over the microscope and Erlenmeyer flasks in the kitchen. More often than not, he would end up on the leather couch, cradling Sherlock's beloved Stradivarius as though it were the man himself.

After three weeks of insomnia and numbness and grief, he feared for his own sanity.

He gathered up the absolute basics of what he needed and left, finding a room several miles away that was much like the one he'd had when he first returned to London.

It allowed him to exist, and that was all he needed now. All he expected.

He took precisely three items that had been Sherlock's: the skull, the violin, and Sherlock's blue dressing gown.

Neither Mycroft nor Mrs. Hudson said a word.

* * *

Shortly after he had been to see Ella, he and Mrs. Hudson made a visit by themselves to the cemetery.

He knew Mrs. Hudson was grieving, too – Sherlock had been like a son to her, which was part of why she was so angry now – but he was grateful when she left him alone. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have kept his composure in front of her, not with the black granite slab standing ruthlessly in front of him.

It came over him all at once, in one overwhelming, painful wave, that this would be the closest he could ever be to Sherlock from now on – and frankly, he couldn't bear it. So he tried again. Tried to find some of the words that had been eluding him for the past few weeks – for the past few months, really.

"Um, you – you told me once that you weren't a hero. Um - there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were – the best man, and the most human – " John struggled to find another noun, then gave it up as a bad job "– human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so – there."

He walked carefully toward the headstone, touching his fingertips to it gently, as though Sherlock could feel the tentative caress.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much," he choked out. John began to walk away, but it was almost as though he could feel Sherlock's specter hovering near him, and he turned around in desperation. Had Sherlock been standing there, John would have grabbed him by his lapels, but as it was, all he could do was look at that hateful stone as he pleaded.

"There's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me," he gasped hoarsely. "Don't be dead. Would you do that – just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."

John allowed a few tears to fall as he bowed his head and put his hand over his eyes – but he would never leave this spot again if he allowed himself to completely break down, and so he straightened his posture into an erect military salute before leaving.

He didn't look back.

Sherlock had brought him alive again, and he couldn't allow that to go to waste – no matter how much he might want to.

* * *

John attempted, over the next few months, to put his life back together, to function in spite of the aching void in his chest that Sherlock had left behind. He still worked for Sarah at the surgery – and in fact, she was immensely relieved to have someone on staff as dependable and regular as John had become. That spring and summer saw a rash of illnesses and outbreaks that overwhelmed the medical offices of London, and between them, Sarah and John coped with the onslaught of patients. John fell back into his RAMC habits, eating and sleeping only when absolutely necessary and tending to one case after another until late in the evenings.

It was not lost on John that he had taken to abusing his body as badly as Sherlock had abused his, something for which John had often chastised him roundly. However, there was no one to worry about him save Sarah and Mrs. Hudson, and the long hours and continuous work kept away his psychosomatic limp and hand tremors, though those same hours did nothing to improve the condition of his shoulder.

He still went to have tea with Mrs. Hudson every so often, and she kept him updated on the progress of cleaning out the flat. She had boxed up Sherlock's lab equipment and had someone from St. Bart's come to collect it – since Sherlock had spent so much time in their lab and morgue, Mrs. Hudson thought it was fitting that his equipment should go there. John smothered a smile at Sherlock's voice in his head, pointing out all the ways the idiot techs at Bart's would undoubtedly misuse his things. John knew Mrs. Hudson meant well, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings by pointing out the detective's probable opinion of her reasoning.

Mycroft had, according to Mrs. Hudson, come by in person to remove Sherlock's possessions shortly after the funeral. John was frankly surprised that Mycroft had taken the time to do such a thing himself, but apparently he and the ever-present Anthea had spent several hours packing Sherlock's clothes and books, case files and laptop, and Mrs. Hudson had asked them to stay for tea. Mycroft had said that his mother wanted some of Sherlock's things, and he wanted to add some of his brother's unique library to his own collection.

"He looked terrible, the poor man," Mrs. Hudson said sympathetically, on a day roughly six months after Sherlock had died, as she and John talked over tea and scones. "As thin as Sherlock used to be – except he's not quite as tall, you know – and simply exhausted. He said he's been doing everything he can to deal with the people who hurt Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson's voice shook a bit, and she wiped away a tear as she took another sip of tea.

"Yes, well, he might start by looking in the mirror, then," John said sharply, unable to contain his bitterness. "No doubt he wanted Sherlock's case files for all of their notes; he always did want to know more than Sherlock would tell him."

Mrs. Hudson watched him keenly for a moment, then set down her cup and saucer with a decisive click, covering one of John's hands with her own.

"You should at least try to forgive him, John," she said gently. "I know all of the publicity before Sherlock died was terrible, although I don't know exactly what led Sherlock to – to do what he did, and I know you don't either. I don't know how much Mycroft had to do with it, even though you clearly hold him responsible in some way. I _do_ know they didn't entirely get along. But John" – and she squeezed his fingers, making John look up at her – "he has lost his brother, probably the only person in the world who was remotely like him and could understand him. It's not any easier for him than it is for you, even though your relationships with Sherlock were – different," she finished, hesitating just a fraction of a second over the last word.

John smiled slightly, both to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson and at the irony of what she had (almost) said. He knew what she thought – what everyone, apparently, had thought – and the ridiculous thing was that it hadn't been true at the time. He had scarcely begun to come to grips with his feelings for his flatmate, much less decided whether to do anything about them, before Sherlock had been torn from him. Even had he been brave enough to do something – say something – there were no guarantees that Sherlock would have reciprocated. Sherlock had a complicated relationship with emotions at the best of times, and he really did seem – had seemed – to be married to his work above all else, no matter how high his regard for John had been. John felt tremendously honored to know that he was – had been – Sherlock's closest friend, and maybe, in the end, he would have decided that was enough, and never said anything at all. It _had _been enough, come to that – Sherlock had saved him in all the ways that mattered. Even if John spent every day of his life wishing for one more conversation, one more chase, one more evening in Baker Street – and he knew he would – the eighteen months he had spent with Sherlock shone like a bright star over all the rest of his life.

"I'll work on it, Mrs. Hudson," he finally said to his former landlady, taking another sip of his own tea. She was right, after all; Mycroft _had _lost Sherlock and must have been devastated, though he would hide it from the entire world before admitting to it.

"Good," she said, patting his hand before standing and going back over to the stove to put more water on.

"And you know, John, you can come back whenever you like," she added after a moment. She turned back toward him, and John could see the tears in her eyes. "You don't have to, of course, but I don't have any plans to immediately rent the flat again. To be honest, I can't imagine not having at least one of you upstairs," she admitted, her voice trembling.

John rose from his chair and enfolded the older woman in a hug. God, he loved this woman like a mother, and it was so hard to see her hurting this way, even if he understood it more than anyone else.

"I'll think about it, all right?" he murmured. "I need a little more time, but. . . I'll think about it."

"I would love to have you, if you want," she replied, and John gave her another squeeze before letting her go.

When he got home, John showered, wrapped himself in Sherlock's dressing gown, and collapsed in his reading chair for the rest of the evening.

There were days, still, when the grief was just too great.

* * *

The one-year anniversary of Sherlock's death found John still undecided about moving back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson missed him, and in all honesty he missed her and the flat, but he still wasn't sure he could stand to be there without Sherlock – not to mention that he couldn't really afford it. He had put a good bit away since he had been working so much at the surgery (and since he had no social life to speak of), but he would probably need to get a flatmate eventually, if he moved back – and the idea of that still felt like betrayal. Baker Street was Sherlock's; it was where Sherlock belonged, whether John was there or not, and replacing him with someone else was impossible.

The anniversary also found John back at the graveyard, for the first time since his visit with Mrs. Hudson directly after the funeral.

It was cold, but not unbearably so, and it wasn't raining. John had come prepared, wearing a jumper and a heavy coat and carrying a blanket to sit on. He spread the blanket out in front of Sherlock's headstone, and slowly eased himself down, placing a bouquet of deep purple calla lilies directly underneath Sherlock's name.

"Hello, Sherlock," he said quietly.

John simply sat for a few minutes, letting the peacefulness of the place sink in. He could appreciate the prettiness of the cemetery in a way he'd been incapable of doing before.

"You know, I have no idea if you like flowers," John said finally, the corner of his mouth turning up. "Much less if you care about where your headstone is. I doubt it, given how many times you've said your body is just 'transport' – but it's nice here. And the flowers remind me of you. They're – _vivid_, like you. You always appreciate beauty when you actually take the time to notice it."

John knew he was still talking in the present tense, as if his friend was actually sitting across from him, but he didn't care. It felt right, in a way that speaking in the past tense never did – and given how often he heard Sherlock's voice in his head, he wasn't sure he would ever feel as though the detective was truly gone.

"I'm sorry I haven't been back," he went on, his voice becoming quieter. "It's been hard – in some ways it doesn't feel like it could possibly have been a year ago, but in other ways it feels like ten. I miss you. I miss all of your insanity – running around London after you, coming home to find you shooting holes into the wall, hearing you play at three in the morning. I don't miss the body parts in the fridge," John said with a tiny smile, "but I miss everything else."

John stayed for a few more minutes, not saying anything more, and when he rose to leave, he once again brushed his fingertips over the gravestone, the feeling lingering in his nerve endings as he walked out.

He was simultaneously completely unsurprised and utterly irritated to see a black car waiting for him. Mentally throwing up his hands, he stalked over to the car and climbed in the back, sending a glare at Anthea.

"I'm not at all happy about this, for the record," he growled at her.

"Yes, I rather think he's expecting that," Anthea said dryly, unfazed as ever as she tapped her Blackberry.

John crossed his arms and simply sat back to wait, recognizing the route to the Diogenes Club after a few turns. He tried to fathom what Mycroft could possibly want. Mycroft Holmes was not the type to indulge in sentimentality – in fact, John was fairly certain that Mycroft's response to the anniversary would simply be to work harder than ever – so John had no idea why he was being summoned. Still, he would try and be civil. It was the least he could do, on this day when his own heartache was so close to the surface.

Contrary to his usual custom, Mycroft was waiting outside the Diogenes when the car pulled up, standing straight and immaculately dressed at the bottom of the stairs. When John got out of the car, Mycroft wore an expression which, in another man, might have been wariness, but to John's battle-trained eyes, simply looked like someone braced for a reaction – or a storm.

"Mycroft," he said neutrally. He kept his expression carefully blank, but he knew his eyes were cold and Mycroft could read his displeasure.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said with a nod. He could clearly tell that John was in no mood for pleasantries, and so he inclined his head and the two men began to ascend the stairs together.

Mrs. Hudson was right, John noted – Mycroft was shockingly thin, especially for a man who, a year ago, had a slight paunch and extra weight in his jowls and neck. Though he was as meticulously groomed as ever, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin was of a color and texture that raised all of the alarm bells in the medical side of John's brain. Before he could think about it too much, John reached out a hand and put it on Mycroft's forearm.

"Mycroft, I'm not pleased to be here and I won't pretend I am, but I have to tell you, you look terrible," John said in concern. "You've lost at least two stone, maybe three. I can't imagine the last time you had a full night's sleep, and you're showing signs of malnutrition and dehydration. If it were anyone else, I'd be putting them on two IV drips and giving them sleeping medication about now."

Mycroft gave him a smile that, to John's surprise, seemed genuinely amused and appreciative, if a bit dry. "Ever the doctor," he said with a small shake of his head. "I promise you that I will be much better able to take care of myself after today. It has been – a very long year," Mycroft admitted. "But I will endeavor to bring myself back to health now, Dr. Watson. If it will reassure you, you can leave instructions with Anthea."

John stopped on the top stair in amazement, and Mycroft turned to look at him. "I just might do that," John said slowly, wondering if he had stepped into an alternate universe. Since when had Mycroft Holmes been willing to take medical advice from him?

"I'm sure she would appreciate it. She does worry about me," Mycroft answered, again with that surprisingly genuine smile, and John shook his head, shelving his confusion for later contemplation.

"Mycroft, are you going to tell me why I'm here?" John asked, trying to return his focus back to the original problem. "I don't want to fight with you, today of all days, but I really would prefer to be left alone. Surely you can understand that."

"I can. This shouldn't take long," Mycroft said, and he led the way into the club, turning a corner and leading them through the silent reading rooms until they reached the sitting room where John had met with him on several other occasions. Mycroft reached out to turn the doorknob, but then hesitated, turning back to face John with an expression that was a truly alarming mixture of fatigue, guilt, and sadness.

"John," he said tiredly, "this may turn out to be yet another transgression for which you cannot forgive me, but I hope, in the end, you will see that it was for the best."

John opened his mouth to question the other man, but before he could utter a word, Mycroft opened the door and went in, leaving John no other option but to follow.

As he stepped into the room, John's attention was immediately drawn to a tall figure standing in front of the windows. His heart was in his throat almost before he registered what his eyes were seeing – _light gray suit, dark brown curly hair, slender hands, a profile like Sherlock's, exactly like Sherlock's_ – and he could only stare, unaware of Mycroft slipping out again behind him.

The figure turned completely toward him, and a roaring began in John's ears. He could see differences, small differences, with a clarity that was almost overwhelming – _a tiny scar on Sherlock's right temple, another peeking out from under his shirt collar, over his collarbone, small lines at the corners of his eyes that were new_ – but the face was otherwise Sherlock's. John slowly shook his head, his combat reflexes taking over as his hands steadied and his voice cracked through the room like a whip.

"What is this? Who are you?" he demanded.

And then the apparition spoke.

"It is I, truly, John," the figure said. "You are not hallucinating, I assure you."

And it was his voice, _his_, the deep, rich baritone that John still heard in his mind and in his dreams, but it was wrong, still wrong, because Sherlock had never sounded so pained or apprehensive or hesitant or _gentle_.

John shook his head again in denial. "I don't know what kind of sick game this is," he ground out, speaking between clenched jaws and gritted teeth, "and so help me, when I find out what Mycroft has to do with this there will be hell to pay – but you are not Sherlock Holmes. You are not."

The man hesitated before taking a step forward, but stepped back again as John flinched, the reflex somewhere between striking a blow and shrinking away from an unwelcome touch.

"You are _not_!" the doctor roared, staring down the look alike with a ferocity that was truly frightening as his hands balled into fists. "I watched him fall, I watched my best friend fall to his death and watched his head bleed out over the pavement, so don't you _dare _try to tell me –"

And all at once John wasn't in the Diogenes Club at all, but staring up at Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock, on the edge of the roof at Bart's, feeling the nausea and terror in his stomach as his brain finally started to understand what Sherlock meant to do, hearing the painful breaks in the detective's voice through the phone, his words through what John was sure were tears.

_Keep your eyes fixed on me. Can you do this for me?_

There was a sickening jolt in his stomach as he watched Sherlock toss the phone away and dive off of the ledge, his eyes pinned to his friend's falling form for an unreal handful of seconds that felt like hours, before the horrible thump and crack hit his ears. He was running, running toward the body on the ground but someone plowed into him, throwing him to the ground on his bad shoulder, making him hit his head and dazing him, making it a struggle to stay conscious and fight his way back to his feet, work his way over to the crowd on the sidewalk, only to fall to his knees again as someone – him? – turned Sherlock over and he saw the staring eyes, the blood pooling under Sherlock's curls and running in rivulets through the pavement seams – and someone was trying to talk to him, calm him down, was saying his name even though he hadn't told them his name –

"John," the voice said urgently. "John. Breathe."

John gasped, and he came back to himself as suddenly as though someone had covered him in a bucket of ice water. He was shaking and sweating, and the man who looked so eerily like Sherlock and yet didn't was gripping his upper arms and had backed him against the wall in order to keep him from falling. The man was still speaking to him in Sherlock's voice.

"Deep breaths, John. Slowly," the voice instructed, and John, feeling his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen and his limbs still trembling with adrenaline and shock, tried to comply with the command, consciously fighting back the panic and grief of the flashback, fighting back the anger and confusion created by the man standing in front of him. He sucked in a long breath and released it, then pressed his lips shut and inhaled through his nose the second time, doing the same for the third – and reeling again as his olfactory sensors were overwhelmed by the scent of Sherlock, warm and spicy and utterly unmistakable.

John closed his eyes, still breathing deeply, and when he finally opened them again he saw nothing but blue-grey, blue-grey eyes that were wide and intent and worried. Finally feeling as though he might not be dreaming, John raised a shaking hand to the face in front of him, tentatively cradling one angular cheekbone as his fingers met solid flesh.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock simply nodded, and John withdrew his hand abruptly as he realized what he was doing. Sherlock's fingers relaxed on his biceps, but didn't let go, and John found that he was grateful for the contact, if only to reinforce the reality of what he was seeing.

"I – I don't understand. _How_?" John asked incredulously.

"A carefully orchestrated series of illusions, John – although the fall itself was real enough," Sherlock admitted grimly, a shudder going through his tall frame at the memory. "Braces, padding, a bulletproof vest, real blood in my blood type that Molly took from the hospital supply, a very rare drug called morticyazine to produce the effects of cardiac arrest. A suit jacket and Belstaff coat can cover a great deal. I was hoping not to have to do it, of course, but I had planned for the possibility. Molly filled out the paperwork to make my death look real and cleaned up the actual wounds I sustained."

"Molly," John repeated numbly. His shock and anger at what had seemed like a cruel joke was nothing to the rage that was beginning to course through him. "Molly knew you were alive."

"No," Sherlock corrected decisively. "She knew I was alive when I left the hospital. She did not know where I was going or whether I would live after that, which was exactly how I needed it to be. And in fact, it made little difference anyway, since I was not sure of either of those things myself."

"You weren't sure…" John started to repeat what Sherlock had said, his tone still disbelieving, before he checked himself almost automatically; he knew the detective hated repetition. "And Mycroft?" he demanded.

"Mycroft knew nothing until about two months after my 'death,' when I started leaving dead bodies for his agents and the Yard to find," Sherlock said bluntly. "It wasn't until the third or fourth one, probably two months or so later, that I took the time to get in touch with him, as I was sure that by then he would have figured out what was happening. He had, of course," Sherlock added almost absently, his eyes focused on something in his mind rather than on John.

"Dead bodies – Sherlock, _whose_ dead bodies?" John said, his voice cracking almost hysterically as he tried to process all of the new information and at the same time not lose his temper completely.

Sherlock let him go abruptly, then, and John immediately felt cold without the warmth of his hands. The consulting detective's face arranged itself into the well-remembered expression of impatience and exasperation, and suddenly the Sherlock John knew was back with a vengeance.

"Oh, don't be obtuse, John," he snapped in vexation. "The bodies of Moriarty's henchmen, the major players in his organization. Why else would I have planned for my own death, faked it as realistically as possible when there was no other option, and spent a year away from you and London, running from one country to another?"

The silence that followed Sherlock's outburst was deafening, and John didn't even realize he had swung until his fist connected with Sherlock's face, sending Sherlock sprawling to the floor.

"You sodding _git_. You absolute _wanker_," John said, standing over Sherlock and breathing heavily with the effort of controlling his fury. "You did this for your bloody _game_ with that psychopath? You risked your life, you faked your death, you let me _grieve_ for you and _mourn_ you, all so you could go running off and best him?" John's voice rose steadily, shaking with betrayal, and he was quite sure he had never been this angry and hurt in his life. He had never thought Sherlock capable of being so duplicitous and disloyal, would never have believed that Sherlock could treat him with such callousness.

Sherlock looked up at him from the floor, and this time his eyes were wide not with concern, but with the realization of his mistake and some other, undecipherable emotion that John couldn't identify. Then, to John's complete and utter befuddlement, Sherlock began to laugh. It would have made him angry all over again, but there was something slightly hysterical in the deep chuckles that unsettled John and set his teeth on edge. Something was wrong here.

When Sherlock's laughter ended with a muffled groan, and the detective seemed to fold in on himself in his position on the floor, another kind of awareness flooded John's already prickling senses. He dropped to his knees next to Sherlock and reached out a tentative hand.

"Sherlock?" he said hesitantly. "What is it? Where are you hurt?" A frisson of alarm went through John as he realized that he might have exacerbated other injuries when Sherlock fell to the floor from his punch – it would explain, in fact, why Sherlock had not stayed on his feet, if he had less control of his body than he was used to.

"Cracked ribs," Sherlock gasped, his breathing shallow. "I'll be all right, just – give me a moment. Forgot how much it – hurts to laugh."

John cursed mentally. No wonder he had fallen – twisting his torso with the punch would have been agonizing on cracked ribs. It also shed some light on why Sherlock had not supported John's weight during his flashback and panic attack – Sherlock had used the wall for support, and used the strength of his arms to keep John upright without putting too much strain on his ribcage.

"Let me see," he ordered, his hands already reaching for Sherlock's suit jacket and shirt buttons.

Sherlock sat up slowly, one arm curled around his midsection, and shook his head in a weak protest. "Mycroft's physician has already seen to it, John, there is really no need –"

"Sherlock," John said again, his tone brooking no argument. "Let. Me. See."

Sherlock closed his eyes and cautiously shrugged out of his suit jacket, then unbuttoned his dress shirt. John had been right about the new scar, he saw, a slender white slice over Sherlock's collarbone, but he hissed as he saw the bloom of purple, blue, and yellow around Sherlock's ribcage. The bruises were vicious, likely made by both fists and boots, and combined with the ribs had to pain the detective immensely. John let his fingers ghost over a few of the worst ones.

"Have you been keeping your lungs clear? Taking deep breaths? What pain meds are you on?" he asked, his mind whirring as the medical questions came automatically.

"Yes, I have, and Oxycontin, briefly, followed by high doses of ibuprofen," Sherlock replied, his tone a bit terse but clearly acknowledging John's need for information.

John nodded, keeping his eyes flickering over Sherlock as he absorbed that. Of course giving Sherlock Oxycontin for any length of time wasn't a good idea, given his drug history – ten days was usually the maximum prescription allowed even for someone with no history and no addictive tendencies. As long as he had been preventing any mucous from building up in his lungs, that was the most important thing.

He caught sight of another bandage, through the white material of Sherlock's shirt, and gently touched his forearm. "And this?"

"A knife," Sherlock said succinctly. "Courtesy of one Sebastian Moran, the last person I … dispatched. Moriarty's second in command. It should be fine. Minimal scarring, with any luck."

There was a pause, during which they were both looking at each other, John doing more injury assessment and Sherlock taking in John's expression, his eyes, some of the emotions written so clearly on his face. John was aware of that direct gaze even as his brain was cataloguing the new scars that he could see, calculating the amount of time it should take Sherlock's ribs to heal, and thinking about alternatives for the ibuprofen; Sherlock wouldn't be able to stay on that forever, but he would need something to ward off the residual pain for several weeks yet. He was also shockingly thin, easily as thin as Mycroft, which on his taller frame made him look almost emaciated. He had clearly slept and been hydrated, probably by force if John knew Mycroft at all, which was the only reason his coloring was better than his brother's. He would have to eat consistently for some time, though, even to attain his normally slender and muscled physique.

Eventually, he looked back at Sherlock and nodded, a silent note that he was done with his examination, and Sherlock rebuttoned his shirt before slowly easing back into his jacket. John offered a hand to help him stand, and it was only then, when they were both standing, that Sherlock broke the silence that had enfolded them.

"I am sorry, John," he said quietly, and John looked up at him, astonished. He could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had verbally apologized to him. Sherlock saw his look and his mouth quirked up at the corner, amused and rueful. "There is a great deal you don't know, and I am explaining it all very badly. I have been so absorbed in this, so determined to be done with this bloody business and come home, that I forgot for a moment just how much of a leap I am asking you to make."

It was in that instant that John realized that neither of them had let go of the other's hand, and his fingers tightened around Sherlock's involuntarily, even as his breathing quickened just a fraction. He had been so far in doctor mode before that he hadn't thought about the fact that he was seeing Sherlock's body – but now just the one point of contact was threatening to make his head swim.

"I'm sorry I punched you; I clearly overreacted. Just don't disappear on me again, please," John said, giving Sherlock a small smile of his own. "Having you return from the dead is about all the shock I can take today, I think."

"Understandably," Sherlock said, again with the warm half-smile that John knew was completely genuine. "Come here."

Sherlock tugged John over to the sofa and they both sat, still keeping their hands linked between them, though neither of them chose to comment on it.

"It was not about the game," Sherlock started. "It might have been a game to Moriarty, but it was a game of the most deadly kind, and by the time I was up on that rooftop, I had long since ceased to see it as such, and saw it instead as the web of a man who simply had to be stopped. It might interest you to know that our dear friend Jim shot himself in the head before I jumped."

John blanched. He had wanted to know what happened, but it hurt more than he expected to hear that Moriarty had already been dead, and yet Sherlock had jumped anyway, had faked his own death in front of John's eyes when the criminal they had been seeking was no longer a threat. "I knew he had killed himself – the forensics proved that – but then _why _did you still jump? Why would you still go through with it when he was already dead? When all I could do was _stand there_ and watch you die?"

"Because in death he beat me, too, at least in that moment," Sherlock said tightly, and John realized belatedly that Sherlock's fingers were trembling. It was not easy for him to relive this, to talk about this – there was much more here than John had initially believed. "If I had anticipated that, if I had known he would be willing to go that far, I might have been able to stop him before he pulled the trigger. If I had, this whole charade would not have been necessary."

Sherlock gently disentangled his fingers from John's, and when he raised both hands to cup John's face, John could only stare back at him. Feeling that intense gaze drill into him left him dizzy, brought him back to the moment when Sherlock had been trying to get him to remember the Black Lotus cipher, and all he had been able to feel were Sherlock's eyes and hands – it was like that now, but he knew why Sherlock had done it. Sherlock needed him to remember, needed him to see what had really happened.

"Do you remember what he said at the pool?" Sherlock asked, his eyes intent on John's. John swallowed; how many times had that voice, that sentence, echoed in his head and his nightmares?

"I will burn the heart out of you," he whispered, and Sherlock nodded.

"He meant it, John. It wasn't just about humiliating me, making me look like a fake, discrediting my skills. It wasn't even solely about wanting me dead, though he certainly wanted that, enough to kill himself to ensure it. He wanted me gutted, left with nothing and no one."

Sherlock paused, and John could see the anguish flicker through his eyes before he continued. "I baited you, that day at the lab – I wanted you to be angry so that you would do exactly what you did and go to Baker Street – but I was also trying to tell you, in the only way I could."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," John murmured. He closed his eyes as complete understanding finally washed through him. "I am _such_ an idiot."

The pads of Sherlock's fingers tightened on his cheekbones. "You are not. You are _not_, John," he said fiercely. "You _care_ – and that is not idiocy, no matter what Mycroft might think and no matter how long I tried to convince myself that it was. I owe you a thousand apologies for all of this, and one of them is for twisting your heart to my advantage. If the worst happened, I didn't – I didn't intend for you to see it. But when you showed up – I still tried to tell you."

John replayed the conversation he had relived so many times, slowly going over the lines in his head, for the first time in a year not feeling the soul-wrenching agony of knowing that he would never see Sherlock again. When he reached the correct point in the conversation, he sucked in a breath, knowing he was right. "'It's just a magic trick.'"

Sherlock nodded, another one of those truly kind half-smiles gracing his features. "I didn't know for certain, but – I hoped it would be. If you figured it out afterward, I wanted you to be able to hope, too."

John's throat closed up. Sherlock was still Sherlock, but this strange – strange _tenderness_ was new, new and brilliant and terrifying for John's vulnerable heart. It was as though whatever hell Sherlock had been through in the last year had stripped away his reserve, made him willing to open up to John and show more of the emotions that John had always seen under the surface of his cold and abrupt demeanor. John wondered if what he was seeing was his alone, whether Sherlock was also different around Mycroft or Molly, and some terribly selfish part of him hoped that this Sherlock was all his.

Sherlock seemed to sense that John couldn't speak, because he took another long breath before he continued, his hands still never leaving John's face. "There were three snipers, John. Moriarty left warnings – IOUs – one on an apple, at the flat, when he paid me a visit the day of the verdict. That one was for you. One at the Yard, for Lestrade. One at Baker Street, for Mrs. Hudson. That day at Bart's, the snipers had all three of you in their crosshairs – and either Moriarty had to call them off, or I had to jump. That was their signal to leave. If I was dead, the three of you lived. And we went several rounds, he and I – I was so _close_ to getting him to give them whatever code he had set up," Sherlock growled in frustration, "and he knew that I was. He put a gun in his mouth so that I wouldn't succeed, so that the only avenue left to me was to jump. He was willing to die as long as I did, too – and he had found precisely the right way to make it happen."

"My god," John breathed. He could feel the color draining from his face as Sherlock explained, and by the end he just felt cold all over, his mind in turmoil as he tried to comprehend such an impossible choice. He raised his own hands and placed them lightly on Sherlock's forearms, still needing to feel the detective's flesh under his fingers – and needing a counterpoint to Sherlock's hands on his own skin. "Sherlock, I never imagined –"

"Of course you didn't – and I didn't want you to," Sherlock said determinedly. "No one but Moriarty could have dreamed up such insanity. That was the entire point – everyone had to believe I was dead, even you, John. As long as the world believed it, as long as the people closest to me believed it, then you were all safe. Not only that, but others were safe, too. Harry. Clara. Mrs. Hudson's sister. Angelo. Lestrade's children. And before you ask, John, Molly was safe from the start because Moriarty had deemed her unimportant – he had gone through with the charade of dating her, after all, and watched me dismiss her out of hand that day he was in the lab, saw me utterly ignore her. She didn't matter, or so he thought, and therefore I could go to her when the need was greatest. I've never been so grateful for my own rude and antisocial tendencies," he added wryly.

Feeling slightly more brave, now that he was starting to understand, John slid his hands up to Sherlock's own and entwined their fingers, bringing them down so that their joined hands rested between them. Sherlock offered no objection at all, and John felt his own hope grow just a little more.

"What about Mycroft?" he said curiously. "Why didn't he go after Mycroft?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed in a way that told John he was dissatisfied with this aspect of the case, if case it could be called. "Neither I nor my dear brother have truly been able to figure out the answer to that question. Moriarty knew of Mycroft's existence; he told me so on the roof of the hospital and in any case his network was everywhere – but perhaps he thought it too risky, to try and go after the British Government? Perhaps, again, Mycroft was unimportant to Moriarty because he apparently was utterly unimportant to me? Mycroft and I have a contentious relationship at best, and you have seen our animosity firsthand. If Jim truly wanted to do as he said, take away everyone who was dear to me if I didn't kill myself first, then naturally he would go after those who seemed to be closest to me. To the outside world, Mycroft has never been on that list. It was fortuitous - Mycroft proved himself invaluable, once he knew I was alive, making sure I had money and passports and clearance at my disposal."

"It is also possible that Moriarty wanted to leave Mycroft alive, leave Mycroft knowing that he had been bested and had helped to destroy me," Sherlock added thoughtfully after a moment. "That idea would have been very appealing to him."

John could say nothing to that. It was true, for one, and for another Sherlock clearly knew what had happened between Mycroft and Moriarty. Whether or not Sherlock forgave his brother was up to him, and from what John had seen, Mycroft had certainly exhausted himself in assisting Sherlock, perhaps to atone for what he had done. John himself wasn't sure anymore how he felt toward the elder Holmes; he would need time to figure that out. Mycroft had made a terrible, heartless mistake, and he had kept the knowledge of Sherlock being alive to himself – but since that secrecy might very well have saved all of them, John wasn't sure he could fault the man.

"And so being alone not only protected you, in this case, but protected me, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and Molly, and Mycroft," John summarized succinctly, his voice shaking. "Sherlock . . ."

He trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say or how much he _could_ say without revealing his feelings completely, but thankfully Sherlock stepped in to the conversation.

"Quite," he nodded. "I walked away from Bart's having no idea whether or not I would succeed in taking down the rest of Moriarty's network, or if one of them would take me down first. Molly knew I was alive, at least temporarily, but she didn't know if I would stay that way, and had all of this gone on long enough, she would have assumed I was dead; perhaps she has already. Mycroft didn't know until several months after the fact. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson still don't know. And of course, it was important that everyone I was hunting also assumed I was dead. They weren't expecting me to come looking for them."

"Where did you go?" John asked softly, and suddenly every bit of Sherlock's exhaustion showed on his face.

"Everywhere," he answered wearily. "Everywhere from Paris and St. Petersburg to Morocco and the Ivory Coast. Japan. Thailand. Brazil. Even Canada and the States. I started with the snipers and worked my way up. I wanted the immediate threats to you removed, and after that I focused on the key players, the linchpins. The minions, the hired muscle, would simply move to another organization or job if Moriarty stopped paying them, but the ones who could take over, who could keep running his empire – I wanted them dead. All of them. I wasn't about to spare anyone who could come after you," Sherlock finished. Just for a moment, his eyes turned hard, fierce, and John saw all of the ruthlessness and determination that had driven him to do something so desperate, to risk his life in a six-story fall and then risk it over and over again in the twelve months that followed.

"And if you died in the process, no one would be the wiser, since you were already dead," John whispered, and Sherlock inclined his head in agreement.

"Mycroft would have been the only one who knew for certain, and the few others who cared would have already finished their mourning and moved on. It seemed . . . kinder, as well as the safest way," Sherlock said, hesitating a bit over the idea that anything about his false death could be considered kind. John knew where the hesitation came from, and he smiled humorlessly.

"'A bit not good,' that – but nothing about it was even remotely good, so maybe it could be considered a saving grace," he quipped, striving for lightness – but the statement came out more solemn than he intended, and John almost forgot to breathe as the phrasing struck him and he once again locked eyes with Sherlock. A saving grace – somehow, despite all the horror and grief of the last year, they were both _here_, they were both _alive_, as were the other people they loved. It was all thanks to the careful, swift planning of Sherlock's genius mind and the willingness of his selfless heart, the heart he kept so carefully hidden and guarded under logic and sarcasm and cutting remarks, rudeness and arrogance and impossible behavior.

Neither of them could look away as John's comment hung in the air. Sherlock was studying him intently again, and John gazed back at him just as fixedly, waiting, though he had no idea what he was waiting for – but John saw the instant when something changed in Sherlock's eyes, some last wall of resistance came down and caution was thrown to the wind. Sherlock lifted one pair of their joined hands and rested them against his cheek.

"You were still alive. That was all the grace I wanted," Sherlock murmured, and John thought his heart might burst.

He shifted position just enough so that he could lean forward and rest his forehead against Sherlock's. "I never would have stopped mourning for you, you idiot," he murmured back, his voice thick with tears. "You saved me long before you fell from that rooftop."

In the next breath, he closed the few millimeters of space between their lips, kissing Sherlock with infinite gentleness and yet with all of the pent-up longing that he had thought would never find expression. Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and then his long fingers were sliding through John's hair, holding John in place. John felt dizzy with the sensation; Sherlock's lips were so soft, the feel of him brand new and yet utterly familiar, as if John had kissed him a million times before and simply didn't know it until this minute.

They kissed until they were both desperate for air, learning the taste and texture of each other slowly, reveling in the wet slide of their tongues and the soft brushes of their lips. When they finally broke apart, panting, John reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheekbone, doing freely now what he had been too afraid to continue earlier.

"I love you," he said softly. "Just in case that wasn't clear."

Sherlock smiled, a full smile that was, John thought, quite simply breathtaking in its happiness, and his hand found John's again and held tightly. "I love you too, John. I should hope that would be quite obvious."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of _Sherlock_; it all belongs to the BBC, Ryan Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Two**

Before John could reply to Sherlock's declaration, the snick of the door latch caught the attention of them both, and Mycroft strolled into the room, wearing an expression that was somehow affectionate and condescending at the same time.

"It's really high time you two sorted that out," he said pointedly, his eyes knowing and amused. "Tea?"

Sherlock scowled at his brother, and any worries John might have had about the kinder version of his – what was Sherlock to him now? Lover? Boyfriend? Partner? They really needed to talk about that – the kinder version of his best friend being on display for all were immediately set to rest. His glower was classic Sherlock animosity, as was the sarcastic, biting drawl that was only employed when Sherlock was at his most annoyed.

"Your timing is impeccable as always, brother _dear_," Sherlock bit out, glaring daggers at Mycroft. "So kind of you to interrupt us."

Mycroft merely smiled blandly, and John had the sudden urge to deck him. Mycroft honestly could be infuriating when he wanted to be.

"My apologies, but there really are a few things we must sort out," Mycroft said, sitting down as a tea service was brought in by one of the attendants. When it was set on the table, Mycroft poured them all cups of tea, taking his black and giving Sherlock two lumps of sugar, and then unerringly giving John milk but no sugar in his own cup. John simply shook his head; trust a Holmes to remember how he took his tea after not seeing him for a year.

"First, there is Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft went on. "She does not know you're alive, Sherlock, and I hardly think it a good idea to simply spring you on her."

"No, we can't do that," John said instantly. "She could go into shock, she could faint, she could have a heart attack – there are any number of things that might happen. She's not a young woman – even though I would cheerfully bet on her chances against an assailant," he grinned, prompting a smile in return from Sherlock as they both remembered their landlady hiding Irene Adler's phone in her brassiere.

"Indeed," Mycroft said dryly, "but her ignorance also means that 221B is out of reach, at least for the moment – and in any case I would prefer to keep you in sight, Sherlock, at least for a bit longer."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John could already feel the impatience vibrating in his flatmate's thin frame. "Moran is dead, Mycroft. He was the last of Moriarty's close associates, and I do not fear that one of Jim's minor employees will come after me – at least not before we hear something of it. You have tabs on all of them, and I seriously doubt that any of them are intelligent enough to be a serious threat."

"I would prefer not to take chances, all the same – and you are still legally dead, Sherlock, so it would hardly do to suddenly be out and about in London, when you don't have so much as an ATM card that you can call your own," Mycroft said smugly.

John snorted. "As if he ever used it when he _did_ have one," he said, shooting a glance of affectionate exasperation at Sherlock, who pouted at him and gave him a half-hearted glare for teasing in front of Mycroft.

"Would it be too much to ask for you to speed that process along?" Sherlock asked, his icy sarcasm only matched by his distaste for being so dependent on his brother.

"Anthea is already working on it, but it will take several days," Mycroft said, ignoring his brother's hostility with the ease of long practice.

"Might I offer a suggestion, Mycroft?" John said politely, his brain having come up with an idea during the brothers' bickering.

"I am all ears, John," Mycroft said, looking at him attentively as he took a long swallow of his tea.

"Mrs. Hudson has been after me for months to move back into the flat," John pointed out. Sherlock's eyebrows went up, but he didn't comment. "What if I do exactly that? It will give me a chance to get things settled for us, and then we can decide how best to talk to Mrs. Hudson. It might be better for you and I to speak to her first, Mycroft – she might think I've gone round the twist if I try to tell her myself, and we all seem to agree that it isn't a good idea for Sherlock to simply appear at her door."

Mycroft considered John's statements for a moment and then slowly nodded his head. "Excellent, John. I think that will do nicely. And in the meantime, Sherlock," he added, raising a hand to forestall his brother's protests – "you can stay at the house. I have a room here that will be quite sufficient for a few days or so. No one else but Anthea and the guards know the house codes, and there is enough surveillance on it that we would know in seconds if anything was wrong."

"Marvelous," Sherlock said in exasperation, his irritation plain. John sympathized. Being constantly watched by Mycroft and his employees was not at all appealing, not least because he wanted to be truly alone with Sherlock. However, he understood the necessity – even Mycroft could not be everywhere at once, and it was better to have someone watching for any potential intruders. As diligent as Sherlock had been, one could never be entirely certain about anyone involved with Moriarty.

"John can come with you," Mycroft responded mildly to his brother. "I'm assuming that neither of you want to be apart more than you have to be, and Anthea will see to it that you are not disturbed. I highly doubt that Baker Street is in a fit state to be lived in, at least right away. John can maintain the illusion that he is going back to his bedsit in the evenings until the flat is clean and manageable again, while he is really keeping you company. By the time he has made 221B habitable, we should be able to break the news to Mrs. Hudson, as you should be back in the land of the living."

"So that takes care of one of our problems," John stated. "What are the other things that need sorted?"

"Your Detective Inspector will want to know you are alive, I presume," Mycroft said, arching a brow at Sherlock. "And Miss Hooper as well."

Sherlock shut his eyes, and John watched as he rubbed a hand over his forehead in agitation. He didn't want to have to explain, John knew – he hated displays of sentimentality as a general rule, despite his clear altering of those boundaries where John was concerned. Emotions were difficult for him, and it was going to be exhausting enough explaining everything to John – there were still so many things John wanted to know. He didn't, however, want to put Sherlock through all of that more than once, and so he thought for a few seconds before squeezing Sherlock's hand in reassurance.

"I don't think Molly will be that difficult," he said, speaking more to Sherlock than to Mycroft. "She already knew you were alive afterward; she knew you might be coming home. We can leave something nice for her at the lab, with a note that will let her know when to come round to the flat. It will give her a little time to get used to the idea before she sees you."

Sherlock gave John a grateful look. "And Lestrade?"

John grinned mischievously. "We'll get him to come back to Baker Street, too, but in a way that's a little more fun for you." He turned to Mycroft. "Mycroft, what would it take to get some of Greg's cold case files from the last year, without him noticing?"

Mycroft smirked, looking a bit like the cat that ate the canary as he sipped his tea. "Very little, John. Very little indeed."

As John began to explain his plan, a slow smile also grew on Sherlock's face, and by the end he was grinning.

"It's perfect, John. And thank heaven it saves me from having to explain myself yet _again_," Sherlock said, maintaining a tone that suggested he thought it would be insufferably boring, but John saw the worry lurking.

"Exactly. Although goodness knows what Greg will do once he's actually standing in front of you. Can't predict that, really," John said a bit apologetically.

Sherlock considered that. "He may punch me again – and I probably deserve it," he acknowledged, "but I doubt he'll do anything worse. Lestrade is not given to being irrational."

"Because rationality plays a huge part in how people react to death, never mind resurrection," John muttered, and he saw Sherlock's lips twitch even as the detective tried to hide it.

"Very good," Mycroft said in satisfaction. "I'll make all the arrangements as soon as may be. John, if you would call Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, I'm sure she will let you in straight away. In the meantime, I'll send someone to get some of your clothes and books out of storage, Sherlock, so that you are fit to be seen and have something to occupy yourself. I'll have them brought over to the house. Of course, Lestrade's cold cases should keep you amused for a day once we get them."

John stared at Mycroft for a moment. "In storage. That was why you came yourself."

To John's surprise, Mycroft suddenly looked haggard again, and even a trifle embarrassed, which was not an expression John could ever recall seeing on his face.

"No," he said quietly. "No, John, I was at Baker Street only about three weeks after the events at Bart's. In fact, I simply felt it was . . . the right thing, the most respectful thing to do, and so I did. Neither Mummy nor I could decide what to do with everything straight away, and so we . . . didn't do anything at all."

John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, and the shock that John was sure was written on his face was reflected on Sherlock's. The detective was looking at his brother with a piercing stare of assessment that could not quite hide the surprise in his eyes.

Mycroft. Mycroft had been waiting, too, had been caught in the same kind of grieving stasis that John had found himself in. It was almost more than John could believe. It was true that he had been relieved of his grief much sooner than John, but the evidence of how hard he had worked since, how desperate he had been to bring Sherlock home safely, was all over Mycroft's body.

"Well then," Mycroft said, clearing his throat and standing. "I will have Anthea and a driver take you over to my residence. John, do leave those notes with her, would you?"

"Of course, Mycroft," John said politely. "And would it be possible to have us stop at my bedsit as well? There really are a few things I should grab."

"Not a problem at all," Mycroft nodded, and made a quick escape out the door, leaving John and Sherlock still on the sofa.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Notes?"

"A few suggestions to keep your brother from keeling over and needing to be hospitalized," John explained succinctly. "I chastised him, he said Anthea could take care of it if I told her what was needed, and I took him up on that unexpected offer."

Sherlock gave him a look of wonderment. "He actually did mourn me, before he knew I was alive."

"Sherlock, you're his _brother_," John stressed, leaning forward. "Mrs. Hudson had to remind me of that fact, as I was so angry at him for the first six months after you died that I frankly didn't care if Mycroft was at the bottom of a well." Sherlock let out a soft huff of surprised laughter before John continued. "I know the two of you don't have the best relationship, but you are also probably the only two men in England who can understand one another intellectually. You share a history. Regardless of how much you might disagree, Mycroft cares about you. You said yourself that he did everything he could to help you once he knew you were still alive."

"He did," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "It's just . . . unexpected. I always assumed I was an annoyance, someone he looked after for Mummy's sake, up until the point where he actually needed my skills. Even then I thought he tolerated me more for what I could do than because I was related to him."

"You didn't see his face when I confronted him about what he had done," John said. "That was before . . . it was after we had been at Kitty Riley's, before I met up with you again – I'm assuming you went to talk to Molly?" he queried, and Sherlock nodded an affirmative.

"Well, I went to Mycroft because I had figured out that the only person who could have given Moriarty so much information on you was your brother. I laid into him, he acknowledged I was right and told me how it happened, and he was – devastated," John said. "At the time I didn't care, and frankly thought he deserved every bit of guilt that he could put on himself and that everyone else could hand him – but I could tell how upset he was," John concluded. "I'm not sure I've forgiven him, but even I never doubted that he cares, even if he has a misguided way of showing it."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin contemplatively, and just then Anthea came into the room, the ever-present Blackberry in her hand.

"Ready, boys?" she enquired, and both John and Sherlock rose to their feet. John took his jacket from the back of the chair, and to his surprise, Sherlock went over to a coat rack hidden in a corner, returning with the much-loved Belstaff coat in his hands.

"You still have it," John said dazedly, and Sherlock, startled, looked over at him.

"Of course. It wasn't at all suitable for some of the places I traveled, nor some of the disguises I had to assume, but Mycroft kept it safe," Sherlock answered nonchalantly, pulling it on and retrieving a blue scarf – a newer one, John saw, but the same deep shade of blue – from the pocket.

John had to stop and blink back tears. Sherlock had been wearing the coat when he fell, but standing in front of him now was the Sherlock John saw in all of his memories – suit, scarf, and Belstaff, collar turned up and the coat swirling about him as they ran across London or flew through a crime scene.

"John?" Sherlock asked softly, quizzically, and John shook his head and tried to smile, though he knew Sherlock could see his emotion.

"Nothing, it's – nothing. It's brilliant. I missed you," he managed, and Sherlock knit his brows, still puzzled, but took his hand in reassurance and pulled him toward the door.

Anthea had wisely kept silent, John noted gratefully, and as they approached, she tactfully changed the subject. He might have to rethink his impressions of Mycroft's enigmatic assistant.

"Dr. Watson, I understand I am to get some medical advice from you?" she asked as she held the door open for them.

John nodded, his brain switching gears as he remembered his earlier diagnosis of Mycroft. "Right. Anthea, I don't want to make him submit to IVs, because among other things I hardly think that would inspire confidence in him politically, should anyone find out. But he absolutely has to eat three meals a day. He has to be hydrated all the time – every time he empties a glass of water or a cup of tea, there should be another one in front of him, without him ever having to think about it. No caffeine, not even in his tea. It's a diuretic, and I want his body to hang on to fluids. Make him take sugar in his tea for a few days, even if he usually doesn't – it will help his energy levels. And seven hours of sleep, minimum, every night, for several weeks. Consecutively would be best, but if he can't do that, make him take a kip in the middle of the day if you have to. If he doesn't start taking care of himself right now, and I mean immediately, he could honestly collapse, and I don't think any of us want the British Government in hospital. It's going to be bad enough having one of the Holmes brothers in all the papers."

"You're telling me," Anthea agreed, in what was probably the closest thing to an honest opinion John had ever gotten from her. "I'll see it's done, Dr. Watson."

"Get some blood tests done in about three weeks – glucose, iron, Vitamin D, calcium, all the usual – to make sure his levels are back up to normal, or at the very least going up," John instructed. "I know you probably have ways of doing that with discretion, but make sure it happens. If there's something else going on, if all of this mistreatment of his body has caused some other problem, his treatment might have to be altered in some way."

Anthea tapped quickly on her Blackberry as they arrived at the car, and when they had all clambered in the back, she reached out and laid her hand on John's forearm. "Thank you, Dr. Watson," she said sincerely.

John gave her a brief but honest smile. "You're welcome," he said, and Anthea smiled back at him before sitting back and resuming her typing.

"The next thing you know, Mycroft will have hired you as his private physician," Sherlock said acerbically, and John turned to him with a stern glare.

"You're getting subjected to the exact same thing once we get home, and so help me, Sherlock Holmes, if you argue with me I will treat you by force. Don't think I can't. Right now just about anyone could take you down with the right pressure points, and I am not just anyone," John snapped. His anxiety over Sherlock's physical state was very real, and he knew from long experience how terrible Sherlock was at taking care of himself.

He was expecting an argument, but Sherlock merely smiled and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the headrest. "I wouldn't dream of it, my dear doctor," he murmured. "I could never mistake you for just anyone."

Warmth coursed through John at the endearment, and he looked out the window with a small smile, studiously avoiding Anthea's raised eyebrows – but his hand found Sherlock's again, hidden underneath the folds of the Belstaff, and they stayed that way quite comfortably until the car arrived at their first destination.

* * *

John really needed very little at the bedsit. Leaving Sherlock and Anthea in the car, he swiftly packed several changes of clothing into a duffel bag, placed several smaller items, his Browning, and his toiletries on top, grabbed his laptop bag, and finally picked up a double-locked Pelican case that had also been securely fastened to his bedframe.

He made sure to lock his room as he left, and when he emerged back on the street, Sherlock got out of the car to help him put the bags in the trunk, giving John a curious look as he saw the locked case.

"You'll see," John said with a laugh. "I'll show you when we get to Mycroft's, I promise."

The second leg of their journey was, thankfully, considerably shorter than the first, and John had to keep his jaw from dropping as they pulled up to an imposing building in Knightsbridge, one of London's most expensive neighborhoods.

Anthea led the way this time, punching in a long code at the door and nodding to the guards in the foyer before leading them into the main part of the house. Unlike before, in the car, John wasn't able to keep himself from gaping. The house was beautiful. Anthea was moving swiftly, and so he only had a blurred impression of high ceilings, beautiful archways, marble, flowers, and glass, but everything simply breathed taste and expense. They went up a large staircase in the center hall, and turned to the right at the top, going down the hallway until they were confronted with another set of double doors.

"This is one of the guest suites, and will be yours while you're here," Anthea said with a small smile. "Mr. Holmes, I'm sure you remember the layout of the house, so I'll leave it to you to show Dr. Watson around."

Sherlock looked startled to realize that Anthea was addressing him, but he nodded, and John reflected that his reaction was understandable; coming from Anthea, "Mr. Holmes" was always Mycroft. Anthea nodded back in acknowledgement, then turned the door handles and preceded them into the room.

The suite was, like everything else about Mycroft, immaculate, expensive, and tasteful, though John wasn't expecting the warmth of the place. The dark wood and rich russet upholstery made everything feel cozy. Books lined the built-in shelves; there was a large sofa and two comfortable-looking reading chairs, and a wide coffee table that was clearly meant to hold books and files. There was a large fireplace with an ornately carved wooden mantle taking up most of one wall, with a beautiful flatscreen television anchored above it, and Anthea efficiently lit the fire that was already laid in the grate.

Off the living area there was a fairly large kitchen, and that space was more modern, with dark quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances, but the same warm finish throughout. Opposite the kitchen was an office, full of filing cabinets, more books, and a desk that John thought was suited to a high-end government official – huge, heavy, and capacious. It was clear, though, so presumably it was meant for the use of guests. A small hallway in the back led, he assumed, to the bedrooms and bathroom, and altogether John thought it would be a lovely, luxurious place to spend a few days.

Sherlock unceremoniously dropped John's duffel and laptop inside the doorway and took off his coat, draping it carelessly over a chair. He then lowered himself gingerly to the sofa and resumed his thinking pose that had been interrupted in Mycroft's office – something else that made John smile. He saw Anthea press her lips together at the strewn belongings; clearly she was used to Mycroft's fastidiousness about his personal space. Sherlock doubtless knew that it would upset his brother to leave things lying about, even in guest rooms that had been assigned as theirs, and John gave a slight shake of his head at Sherlock and gave Anthea what he hoped was an apologetic smile.

"Thank you so much," he said. "We really appreciate it."

"It's no problem at all, Dr. Watson," Anthea said, giving him a glance that let him know she trusted him to keep Sherlock at least somewhat in line during their stay. "A courier should be here in an hour or two with some of Sherlock's things. They'll ring the bell."

"Oh," she added, "I should give you the code for the front door, in case you need it." She took out her Blackberry and typed a quick text, and John heard the ping of his own phone as it was received. "Memorize it and delete that, if you can," she said to John, and John nodded in understanding; the security key for Mycroft's home was not something that should be readily available from someone's phone. It didn't surprise him at all that Anthea had his mobile number; that was easily within Mycroft's reach.

"Right then, I'll be off," Anthea said, moving briskly toward the door. "I'll pick up a few of Mr. Holmes's things before I go and take them back to the Diogenes. There should be plenty of food and drinks up here, but if there's anything you need, just ring for Willoughby. I'm sure Sherlock remembers."

Sherlock cracked an eye open at the mention of his name, and John mouthed "Willoughby?" at him as the door clicked shut after Anthea, which produced a smile from Sherlock.

"The butler; he's been with us since Mycroft was in his teens and I was just a boy," Sherlock explained.

John shook his head. Sometimes there really were no words for how stark the differences were between the British classes.

Belatedly, he realized that he was still holding the Pelican case; he'd been so busy looking around and then listening to Anthea that he hadn't bothered to set it down. He did so now, putting it on the table next to Sherlock and shedding his coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, before claiming the armchair next to Sherlock's head for his own.

Sherlock had sat up and was studying the case, looking so confused by it that John grinned.

"You aren't in the army anymore; you keep your Browning on you as much as possible, and if it's not on your person it's in the bedside drawer; the case is too big for a small firearm anyway; why would you still have a Pelican case?" Sherlock murmured.

"Well, properly speaking, I didn't. You know that; you would have seen it if I had it before. I just knew where to get one when I needed it," John smiled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key for the padlocks, handing it to Sherlock. The detective unlocked them deftly, and then John reached over and spun the combination lock, though he knew Sherlock's eyes would follow the numbers. He sat back once he pulled the lock off, waiting, but Sherlock still appeared to hesitate.

"Well, go on then," John urged him, and Sherlock blinked, clearly taking himself out of his mental deduction space, before reaching out and lifting the lid.

His cherished Stradivarius lay nestled in the foam, looking for all the world as if he had set it down in Baker Street hours ago, rather than over a year ago. It was immaculate; not a bit of dust dulled the smooth wood of the instrument or the bow, and John had asked the manufacturers to include slots for the rosin and tuning fork as well.

"John," the detective breathed, reaching out slowly to run his fingers over the instrument. He raised his eyes to the army doctor, shock and adoration mixing in his face, and John felt his heart jump at the look. "You kept it. You had it, all this time. Why?" the detective asked, and John's face twisted into a confused frown at the honest curiosity in Sherlock's voice.

"You didn't know I had it? I thought surely Mycroft would have told you. He never said anything to me, but I figured he must have known, even though he never asked me about it."

"Perhaps he did know," Sherlock said slowly. "I never asked for it or inquired where it was. I was never anywhere that would have allowed me to play, never anywhere long enough, and in any case I would not have wanted to carry it about and risk damaging it. The only time I played while I was gone was in a gypsy camp – I'll get to that," Sherlock preempted him, as John opened his mouth to ask. "But I didn't – I never thought that _you_ would have it. I thought Mycroft must have kept it; it is a valuable piece, aside from being mine. You _hated_ being woken up by my playing, John; why would you keep a reminder of something that was so clearly obnoxious to you?"

John shook his head in disagreement, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I didn't hate being woken up by your playing, Sherlock – the only time that was true was when you were frustrated and made your violin imitate something like a dying cat," he said with a small chuckle. "I did _not_ appreciate that at 3 am. But I loved hearing you play, and it never mattered when. I thought – I often thought that it helped keep the nightmares away, actually," John admitted, his cheeks going faintly pink. "When – when you would play before I was asleep, I slept better – and if I had a nightmare but then you started playing after I woke up, it was easier to sleep again."

Sherlock simply stared at him. "You never said anything."

John rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves suddenly getting the better of him. "Yes, well, it hardly seemed like something I could mention at the time. I was sure you must have noticed at some point – you notice everything - but you never said anything, and so I didn't either. And you played often enough while we were awake, and that was –" John stopped, at a loss for words, and his mouth went dry as Sherlock reached out and took his hand again, stroking one thumb over his knuckles.

"It was what?" Sherlock prompted, and John looked up at him. There was still only inquisitiveness there; Sherlock wanted to know, and he wanted John to be comfortable telling him. There was no coyness, no previously deduced knowledge of what John would say, and John abruptly realized that Sherlock was utterly unaware of the picture he presented when he was entirely focused on creating music.

"Sherlock, do you honestly not know how gorgeous you are when you play?" John asked frankly, and Sherlock's cheeks went as pink as John's had been a minute before, but he deflected it with his usual sarcasm, though it was much warmer in tone than it was with anyone else.

"Really, John, how much of a narcissist do you think I am?" he quipped, and John raised his brows.

"Do you really want me to answer that?" he returned dryly, and then they were both grinning, the tension broken and the ease returning.

Still smiling, John studied their hands as he resumed speaking, glancing up at Sherlock every now and then, somehow enjoying the contrast between the detective's long, slender musician's hands and his own slightly broader tan ones. "Sherlock, watching you play – for me, anyway, it's like seeing the things you hide from everyone else, like you're channeling all of your emotions into the music instead of showing them to the people around you. It's – breathtaking. It took me ages to even realize _why_, why I couldn't tear my eyes away from you when you had that violin in your hands – but once I understood it, I couldn't see anything else."

"And that," he added quietly, "is why I took your violin with me, when I left Baker Street. Because I saw your heart most often when you played, and it was beautiful."

Sherlock was silent for a long time, and John's stomach began to turn with uneasiness. He looked up at his best friend again, searching.

"Too much?" he questioned carefully. Sherlock hadn't let go of his hand, and John resisted the urge to tighten his grip; he didn't want to give Sherlock any reason to pull away.

Sherlock still looked dazed, but he shook his head decisively in the negative. "No. No, John, I am just – surprised. You continually manage to confound my expectations. Even though I think I know you better than anyone, I am unable to always predict how you will react to something or what you will choose to observe. I suppose that is why you are a source of endless fascination," he admitted with a smile. "I never thought you would see so much in something I do all the time, particularly because you seemed to find it an annoyance. I'm really almost upset that I failed to observe _you_, when you were observing _me_ so intently," he finished, sounding vexed, and John laughed.

"I'll take it as a compliment that I manage to get anything past you at all," he answered. "Even genius consulting detectives are not omniscient, and I'm thankful for it."

"I also never realized I was quite so . . . unguarded when I played," Sherlock said after a pause, and John could hear the discomfort, the vulnerability in the statement, and it made him flinch internally. "I have always used music to . . . feel my way through a case, let my mind work in the background while I focused on playing. Music has always let me release my emotions, let me refocus my thoughts on the logical progression of events, and so I never censored myself . . . but I suppose I had gotten used to playing without an audience. I never really played _for _you, did I?" he wondered rhetorically.

John didn't feel that needed a response, and Sherlock removed the violin from its case tentatively, stroking it with his long fingers as though he didn't quite remember the feel of it –and he probably didn't, John thought; it had certainly been long enough.

Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes warm and bright. "I'll play for you. I'll have to practice a bit," he said, the corner of his mouth curling up, "but I'll play for you when we're back at the flat."

John swallowed the lump in his throat. "That would be wonderful."

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Sherlock turned his head, cutting off any attempt John would have made to continue speaking. John stood, with a small sigh, and went to answer it, knowing that Sherlock probably didn't want to move if he was comfortable.

When John opened the door, he was confronted with a man who was perhaps in his late fifties, with dark grey hair and kind eyes, dressed in a perfectly pressed suit. He was pulling a cart with covered serving dishes, and the smell alone was enough to make John's stomach growl.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," the man said warmly, holding out a hand. "I'm Alexander Willoughby, the family butler. I'm very pleased to finally meet you."

"Pleased to meet you as well," John said heartily, shaking the man's hand and stepping back to let him through. "That smells wonderful; thank you very much. You didn't have to."

"No trouble at all; we couldn't have either of you starving, could we?" Willoughby said, and he rolled the serving cart toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder as he went. "What have you been doing to yourself, Master Sherlock? You look like death, and your brother looks worse."

John winced at the word choice, and Sherlock saw it, but he tossed a fairly cheerful reply over the back of the couch for Willoughby's benefit. "Oh, the usual, Willoughby, hunting down criminal masterminds and saving the world from crime and corruption. I admit I did come off a bit worse for wear this time."

"Only to be expected when one comes back from the dead, sir," Willoughby called back, and while the tone was light enough, there was the barest hint of a reproach in it, and Sherlock stilled before rising up and striding to the kitchen. John followed out of an almost morbid desire to know what would happen.

He wasn't disappointed, though it was precisely the opposite of what he expected.

Sherlock walked over to where Willoughby was uncovering plates of frankly delectable lamb curry and twisting the cork out of a bottle of wine, and laid a hand on the older man's shoulder.

"I am sorry, Willoughby," he said contritely. "You have always taken good care of Mycroft and of me, and I know my . . . apparent death must have been very difficult. I did not wish to cause hurt, but it seemed the only solution at the time."

As if it wasn't amazing enough to see Sherlock apologizing to his family butler, when the butler looked up at Sherlock, his expression startled John – deep, deep affection tempered with shrewd familiarity, and just a trace of the grief that must have been much deeper than he was letting on.

"Apology accepted, Master Sherlock," the butler said kindly. "Just don't do it again. Your brother explained what must have been the basics of it to me, and I understand why," and here he threw a keenly perceptive glance at John, "but losing you twice is quite enough for this family."

John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock went still again, and he saw the detective's fingers tighten further on the butler's shoulder before his arm dropped.

"Thank you, Willoughby," Sherlock murmured, and the butler smiled before turning his attention back to the wine bottle.

"Dinner in just a moment or two, sir, Dr. Watson," he said, tipping his head respectfully in John's direction as the wine cork gave with a loud _pop_.

John gestured at Sherlock, and the two men made their way slowly back to the living room before John wound his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and leaned their foreheads together.

"Twice?" he whispered shakily, and Sherlock's arms came around him instinctively, comforting him.

"The drugs," Sherlock explained, running a soothing hand up and down John's spine. "The worst of it was when I was in my mid- and late twenties, out of uni, not enough work, not enough anything to occupy my mind, and I disappeared for days at a time. Slipped away from Mycroft's cameras, didn't tell anyone where I was or what I was doing. It made Mummy and Mycroft . . . quite frantic."

John closed his eyes. "I can imagine," he said, not quite managing to sound as neutral as he wanted; his chest ached as the feelings from the last year momentarily overwhelmed him again.

Sherlock pulled him closer, bringing John against him and nestling his head next to John's.

"You remember when Lestrade performed that fake drugs bust, to try and get me to talk about Jennifer Wilson's case?" he asked, and John nodded against him.

"It was Lestrade who saved my life when everything was at its worst. I had been pestering him to let me help with cases at the Yard, and he hadn't done it, he wouldn't let me into the crime scenes then, but he would sometimes tell me the details if he was truly stuck, and I gave him enough help that way that I think he started to trust that I knew what I was doing."

Sherlock paused, and John could feel his friend rubbing circles over his bad shoulder, a soft continuous touch that calmed the fear sparking along his nerves.

"However, Lestrade only saw me when I was sober – which wasn't that frequently," Sherlock added self-deprecatingly, " – up until the day he found me unconscious in a crack house after I'd been missing for two weeks."

John let out a harsh breath through his nose, his hands tightening almost painfully on Sherlock's back. "Jesus, Sherlock."

The circular motion stopped and Sherlock's hand simply rested over John's shoulder blade, keeping him close.

"I was more than a little . . . lost, then," Sherlock admitted, his voice dark, and John wondered what it was that had driven Sherlock to such desperate measures to keep his mind occupied – or to make himself forget. He wasn't going to ask now, though, not when they were still finding their balance and this was the first time Sherlock had ever opened up to him about his drug use.

"Lestrade called an ambulance, and it was Mummy and Mycroft and Willoughby who got me through the withdrawal and the detoxing," Sherlock went on. "Willoughby has always been very fond of me, very kind to me, even when I was a boy. He took shifts with Mycroft and Mummy, stayed with me when they needed to sleep or be out. He was . . . the only person I could really talk to after Father died, for a while. "

John shut his eyes. He had seen detoxing patients, and the thought of seeing Sherlock like that – strung out, twitchy, feverish, in pain, vomiting – made him sick to his own stomach. The image of a younger Sherlock grieving for his father made him want to cry. Sherlock's tone made it clear he had adored his father, and John could only feel indebted to Willoughby if he had helped Sherlock through his grief.

They were both silent for a moment, just breathing each other in, before Sherlock continued.

"Once I was clean again, Lestrade started small, feeding me things he was sure I could solve and gradually working up to the harder cases. The small cases he had solved already; I think he just wanted to see what I got from the files, but after those he started letting me into crime scenes. He also watched me like a hawk to make sure I stayed sober, and I knew he was watching. I used a few times, and he knew, but it was never that much or that dangerously again."

"Thank God for that," John replied, lifting his head. He studied Sherlock. "So that night, when you told Lestrade you were clean –"

"I had been for just over three years," Sherlock finished. "I still am – but the flat wasn't," he admitted ruefully.

John buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder, suddenly laughing. "I don't want to know."

"You really don't," Sherlock confirmed with a grin. "Plausible deniability."

John's grip around Sherlock's waist tightened again. "I'll have to thank Greg the next time I see him."

Sherlock didn't reply, but John felt the soft press of lips on the hair near his temple and knew he had been understood.

"Everything is ready, Master Sherlock," said Willoughby, appearing out of the kitchen.

"Thank you, Willoughby. We appreciate it," Sherlock said warmly, and the butler gave a quick bow and smile before letting himself out.

Sherlock took John's hand and led him back to the kitchen, where Willoughby had laid their plates and wine on the breakfast bar, along with utensils and cloth napkins. They both sat and began to eat in companionable silence, and John almost felt overwhelmed again. Even in one of their shared silences, Sherlock's presence was unmistakable, worlds away from the emptiness in Baker Street after his death or the deafening vacuum of John's bedsit at night. He resisted the urge to take Sherlock's hand again; his friend needed to eat, and John wasn't about to impede his ability to do so.

After they had each consumed about half of their plates, he cleared his throat and ventured another question.

"After – after you were clean," he ventured, "was that when Mycroft began to treat you like a problem? Manage you? Is that where your feud stems from?"

Sherlock paused, setting down the forkful he had been about to eat. "It grew worse after that," he acknowledged. "The roots of our problems were already there; we had always bickered as children. Ten years difference in our ages didn't help, either," Sherlock admitted. "Once he knew I had been an addict, however, knew where I had been disappearing to, he was relentless in trying to keep me under control. He may have been right to do so, at first, but I resented it bitterly – and it became a habit with him, even when it was clear that I was capable of functioning on my own again."

"I'm sorry," John said softly. He knew that Mycroft worried constantly over Sherlock; the elder Holmes hadn't been lying about that when John first met him. At the same time, John knew how much Sherlock craved independence and couldn't tolerate interference with his methods or his personal life; no wonder he was so hostile about Mycroft's endless hovering and unannounced visits.

"This year made it better," Sherlock said reflectively. "I doubt we will ever be in perfect accord, but it helped us to have a common goal or two. I wanted Moriarty's web gone, as did he. I wanted to come home to you; he also wanted to keep me alive."

John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face before giving in and reaching for Sherlock's hand. "You know that I'm always going to feel obligated to him for this. I'm still angry with him, and I don't think I've forgiven him yet, but he's damn near killed himself trying to help you. You're still _here_, partly because of him."

Sherlock disengaged his hand from John's in order to run the same hand through John's hair.

"I know," he said quietly, and John gave him a grateful look, but then Sherlock's expression turned mischievous. "I also know that you will _always_ pick me, and it certainly can't hurt to have Mycroft reminded of that every once in a while."

John grinned, a small chuckle escaping him as he thought about Mycroft's probable response to that. "You're impossible."

"I'm also right," Sherlock declared, smiling back.

"You are," John agreed, and the kiss happened naturally then, both of them turning and leaning in until their lips met. Sherlock's hand came up to rest along John's jaw, and John took his hand and rested it on Sherlock's shoulder, and suddenly they were both trembling, their kiss still gentle but feverish, as if they both needed to know that this was _real_, that they were together, that they were both alive and breathing and with each other. John's head spun as Sherlock's tongue traced his lips, and he let out a soft gasp, pressing them closer together, before they both gave up altogether and just stood, desperately trying to get closer with every shift of their mouths.

It floored John, the sheer amount of tenderness and longing and desire he felt for this man – never in a million years could he have thought, before meeting Sherlock, that he would feel this way about another person, as if every atom of his body, as if his very soul, needed Sherlock like he needed air to breathe. He thought he had lost Sherlock once, and nothing – _Nothing, ever again_, John thought fiercely as he moved his lips to Sherlock's neck, softly kissing and sucking his way down – would keep him from Sherlock now or in the future, not if he had any choice in the matter.

Just as John touched his lips to the small hollow between Sherlock's collar bones, Sherlock gripped his shoulders in an unmistakable, if unspoken, request to stop, and John immediately took a step back, trying to calm his racing heart and looking up at his best friend.

"John," Sherlock breathed, and his heart was beating just as erratically as John's, his lips were kiss-swollen, the bright color of his eyes was almost swallowed by his pupils, and the naked desire on his face stole John's breath from his lungs – but there was something else there, too, some flicker of uncertainty or lack of knowledge that John immediately wanted to erase, with whatever reassurances he could give. He rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, holding him close again in silent support, and he felt Sherlock give a shuddering sigh before he spoke.

"John," he said again, his voice low and his arms tight around John, as if he was afraid the former soldier would retreat from him, "I want this, want _you_, so very much, and I am – honoured that you would trust me with your heart when I have put you through so much, but – will it upset you if –"

John could think of a million endings to that thought, but none of them mattered when Sherlock was clearly struggling for words and afraid of rejection. He had to make Sherlock understand that he was going to _stay_, no matter what they might have to work through.

"Sherlock," he said, taking Sherlock's face between his palms. "I love you, and by some _miracle_ you are standing here in front of me when I thought I had lost you forever. No matter what you say right now, it's all right. Tell me, love. What do you need?"

Surprise flashed over Sherlock's features at the endearment, and John felt as though he should be surprised himself – but he wasn't. It felt natural and true, and the glowing warmth that was slowly filling Sherlock's eyes was something he wanted to see every day for the rest of his life.

"I need to _understand_," the detective admitted, reluctance and frustration both clear in his tone, and a glimmer of comprehension started to break through the worry in John's mind. "I don't want either of us to jump into this without knowing how we got to this point; I don't want to create fault lines in the new part of our relationship when we've only just started to repair the old part. I've seen and done a great deal in the last year, and so have you, and those are all pieces that are missing."

"So in other words," John said, and he smiled in spite of himself and hoped Sherlock saw the affection in it, "you need the missing data in order to understand the whole picture. That makes perfect sense. I should have seen that coming, actually."

Sherlock's shoulders uncurled and relaxed with relief, and he laid another soft kiss on John's lips. "I want to _learn_ you, John – everything I don't know, everything I've missed, either during this last year or while we were still at Baker Street. I don't want to rush this. We have time now, time I wasn't sure we'd ever have, and I want to take advantage of it."

"That sounds marvelous," John said, leaning up to return Sherlock's kiss. He took Sherlock's hands in his own. "Were you planning on sleeping tonight?"

Sherlock grimaced. "I'd rather not, but even I am forced to admit that my body needs the sleep. Moran caused me enough injuries that I still tire quickly, but sleep fitfully at best."

John nodded. "Another reason we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. My apologies for that; I wasn't thinking very clearly," he said, reaching up to brush a curl off Sherlock's forehead and giving a lopsided smile.

"That makes two of us, then," Sherlock answered, smiling back. "Why did you ask about the sleeping?"

A knock came again at the door, and John cursed inwardly at the awful timing. Sherlock gave him a look, but went to the door himself this time. He found Willoughby carrying numerous garment bags and two additional zipped-up totes, one of which clearly contained books. Sherlock quickly reached out to divest the butler of some of the heavy load.

"Thank you, Willoughby. The courier came, then?" he said, and Willoughby nodded.

"He was just at the door, sir. This should be enough of your clothing to be going on with, and it looks like your brother has sent some books and other things for you," Willoughby said.

"Excellent," Sherlock said in satisfaction. "If I get bored I can always start picking the locks on his filing cabinets."

"I've no doubt you would, sir," Willoughby said cheerfully. "Just keep me out of it when he finds out."

"Of course, Willoughby; I'd never let you see me do it anyway," Sherlock said, pretending to be affronted, and the butler merely winked at him before bowing and heading down the hall.

"I'm beginning to see what you must have been like as a child," John teased as Sherlock turned back toward him, sauntering through the living room on his long legs. "Brilliant and therefore in all kinds of trouble."

"Nothing much has changed, then."

"I'm afraid not," John rejoined, and they were both grinning again. John had forgotten how it felt to smile this much, to share jokes and banter and laughter with Sherlock, and going by the softness in his friend's eyes, it seemed Sherlock had forgotten it too.

"Why did you ask about the sleeping?" Sherlock questioned again, and John cleared his throat, remembering where they were before Willoughby knocked.

"I was hoping – I was hoping you would stay with me," John requested shyly, stumbling over his words a bit in his nervousness. "Even if you don' t sleep at all, even if you're restless, just – having you next to me would – help. I really don't want to wake up tomorrow and think I dreamed all of this."

Sherlock rested a hand on John's cheek, and when he spoke his tone was some uniquely Sherlockian mixture of arrogance, teasing, and tenderness that was only possible for him.

"And what makes you think that I would have been willing to let you out of my sight again, even if you had wanted to sleep alone?" he asked softly, with a slow smile, and John could only nod, turning his head to place a grateful kiss at the base of Sherlock's palm.

"Shall we finish the curry, then?" he said. "There's bound to be something ridiculous on the telly, just waiting for you to tear the contestants to pieces."

"Mmm, sounds invigorating," Sherlock agreed with a wink, and the two of them went to retrieve their plates from the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of _Sherlock_; it all belongs to the BBC, Ryan Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note**: I must, once again, thank WickedforGood13, who has read countless PMs about my headcanon and characterization for this story and soothed my worried nerves. She is an endless help and a very good friend. I also want to thank all of you who have read and reviewed! I appreciate it so much.

I have no personal experience whatsoever of the armed forces, so I do not in any way claim that John's impressions and/or experiences are accurate, just my own attempt to understand how he functions. However, it is true that LGBTQ individuals have been able to serve openly in all branches of the British armed forces since 2000 – a good ten years before John meets Sherlock.

* * *

**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Three**

John woke slowly the next morning, feeling soft sunlight touching his eyelids and warmth surrounding him. He felt more rested than he'd been in ages, and he was acutely conscious of the body next to his in the bed. Sherlock's long limbs were stretched out beside him, and John's nostrils were full of his scent again, the earthy spiciness that was all his overlaid with a faint trace of chemicals and an inexplicable hint of nutmeg.

John opened his eyes and turned carefully onto his side, wanting to see Sherlock but not wake him. The detective was on his back and apparently sound asleep, but John could tell he wasn't comfortable – his muscles were too tense, his posture too stiff. He was still in pain, even while unconscious, and he wouldn't feel particularly energized when he woke up. Ibuprofen helped enough during the day that Sherlock could ignore most of his discomfort, but he needed to sleep well in order to heal. John decided he would try to think of a sedative that Sherlock could take for a few days – once he'd had some tea.

Right now, though, he wouldn't leave the bed or his spot in it for the world. The sunlight trickling in around the curtains illuminated Sherlock's pale skin as though it were white marble and picked up the highlights in his dark curls. He looked younger, softer, and still devastatingly handsome. John reached out a hand and gently combed his fingers through Sherlock's hair, marveling again at the softness of it.

The remainder of the evening before had been pleasant and congenial, much like their quiet evenings in 221B – though any readers of John's blog might believe that they had never had any quiet evenings, they had managed them quite often when there weren't any cases, and they had been some of John's favorite times. Sherlock had generally been absorbed in an experiment or playing his violin to stave off his boredom, while John caught up on the latest medical research. Thankfully, being in Mycroft's guest suite had made very little difference at all in their dynamic, though John knew they were both hyper-aware of each other.

Once they had fetched their plates from the kitchen, they settled on the couch and flipped through the television channels until they found some ridiculous game show – John wasn't sure he even followed the premise of it, but it had been entertaining all the same to watch Sherlock pick apart the foibles and personal lives of the contestants, to the extent that he could do so through a television screen.

When they were both done eating, they had shifted positions – although Sherlock could not sprawl on the couch as was his habit, not with his injuries, he still seemed to be more comfortable lying down, and he had maneuvered himself until his head was in John's lap. He was hesitant to do so, John could tell, even though he was projecting an air of unstudied casualness, and John had run his hand over Sherlock's hair in silent confirmation that yes, this was fine, and they were completely fine. The tension had drained out of Sherlock's muscles at the touch, and from then on they both simply enjoyed the closeness. When they ran out of game shows, they settled on reruns of Poirot, and watching Agatha Christie with Sherlock was as amusing, if not more so, than watching him tear apart game show contestants – his continuous mutterings about illogical events in the storyline, red herrings, unrealistic behavior by the criminals and the innocent parties alike, all tickled John immensely.

It wasn't until they were both almost nodding off that John had reached over and switched off the telly, then nudged Sherlock until he sat up, yawning blearily and wincing.

"Come on," John had said, quietly insistent. "You don't want to sleep like that; your body will hate you for it tomorrow. Take the bathroom first. I'll change the dressing on your arm when you're done."

Sherlock had gone to perform his ablutions and change, and John had gathered their dishes and quickly cleaned them in the kitchen before digging out his own pajamas and toiletries from his duffel. He had also gathered up the small medical kit he carried everywhere, set everything on the large queen bed in one of the bedrooms, then gone and rapped on the door of the en suite.

"I'll fix your arm whenever you're ready, Sherlock," he had called.

This morning, Sherlock's arms were covered with the luxurious, sleep-rumpled sheets of the bed, but John winced as he remembered the slice that lay underneath the bandage on Sherlock's forearm. The gash had been nasty and deep; the only fortunate thing was that it had been made by a very sharp knife, and so the cut had been clean, with sharp, defined edges instead of ragged tearing of the tissue. Someone had done a good job of stitching it up – Sherlock himself? Mycroft's doctor? A stranger? John would have to ask; he had no idea where Sherlock had been when he confronted Moran – and while Sherlock would definitely have a scar, the wound would hopefully heal cleanly, into a single white line. It was also fortunate that it had been his right arm and not his left; his violin playing would not be impeded in his fingering hand. John had made Sherlock flex his fingers and rotate his forearm, and he not seen any obvious nerve damage, but it would be easier (and less frustrating for his best friend) to rehabilitate Sherlock's bow hand if necessary.

The hand that wasn't stroking Sherlock's curls clenched into a fist as John thought about the injuries covering Sherlock's body. Sherlock had borne the cleaning and re-dressing of the wound with silent stoicism and a clenched jaw, though it must have been painful. Because he had been without his shirt, John had gotten a fresh look at not only the bruises, but the myriad cuts, scrapes, and other injuries that were all in various stages of healing, as well as a few that had long since healed but had left scars here and there.

Moran was lucky he was already dead. John would have taken pleasure in making his death as painful as possible, along with the death of every other person who had dared to injure Sherlock. John could still barely process that Sherlock had done what he had – not that he had accomplished it; John knew exactly how single-minded the detective could be, but that he had done it for John's sake, for Mrs. Hudson's sake, for Lestrade's sake, for the handful of people he loved with fierce devotion, though he was often terrible at showing it. John might want to shake him and shout at him for going off into so much danger on his own, but his friend's actions also only made him love Sherlock more.

After John had finished wrapping up Sherlock's arm, there had been a small moment of awkwardness when they both looked at each other, knowing that this next part was new and crossing lines that neither of them had expected to ever cross. John, however, had raised his chin in determination and taken Sherlock's hand, leading them both to the bedroom. He had never been one to shy away from danger, certainly not with this man by his side, and he wasn't about to start.

He had lain down, stretching out on his side, and gestured for Sherlock to take the other side of the wide expanse of bed. Sherlock had settled himself carefully, on his back, and John had leaned over and brushed his lips over Sherlock's forehead.

"I don't want to put any weight on you; that's not going to feel good with your ribs and all of those bruises," he had said quietly. He wanted Sherlock to understand that it wasn't that he didn't crave physical closeness; he simply didn't want to make Sherlock any more uncomfortable than he already was. "Otherwise I'd happily have my arms around you, or yours around me. But I'm right here if you need anything, yeah? Wake me up if anything feels wrong."

Sherlock had looked up at him, his eyes tired but bright, and nodded with a little smile before propping himself up long enough to give John a soft kiss. "I will. Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock," John had whispered back, and he had fallen asleep with one hand carefully resting on the detective's arm, needing the reassurance and comfort of touch even in sleep.

He was doing it again, John realized – one hand was still in Sherlock's hair, and the other was resting on his bicep. He couldn't get enough of touching Sherlock, it seemed – and while part of it was certainly shock, still, that his best friend was alive and physically real, John knew the rest of it was simple yearning. He had spent a year thinking that his chance to have this was gone forever, that the possibility of loving and being with Sherlock had been snatched from him almost before he realized it existed, and now it was almost impossible to stop himself from affirming his feelings, affirming what they both felt, in as many ways as possible. Touch was one of the easiest and most profound, and every touch they shared made everything a little more certain. Part of John still couldn't believe that in the space of twenty-four hours, he had gone from feeling as though he would never be whole again to being given both of his deepest desires, glowing with promise.

"How is it," he whispered, "that someone as extraordinary as you, Sherlock Holmes, could love an ordinary army doctor like me?"

"That adjective is patently untrue," Sherlock murmured sleepily, shifting a bit and arching into John's touch.

"Which, 'army'?'" John said facetiously. "I _was_ an army doctor, Sherlock; I can show you the file."

"No need; Mycroft already did," Sherlock replied, his eyes still closed.

John chuckled, leaning over and kissing Sherlock's temple. "Of course he did. You prat. How long were you laying there while I was watching you?"

"I actually was mostly asleep," Sherlock confessed, finally blinking his eyes open. They were soft as he looked at John. "I must admit that being woken by your voice and your hands in my hair is a vast improvement."

"Over what?" John questioned, not sure he wanted to know just where or in what conditions Sherlock had had to sleep in the last year.

"Over everything, over any other form of waking I've experienced," Sherlock said, his voice still rough with sleep and his speech slowed. He smiled that same happy, vibrant, slightly shy smile John had seen the day before, and John couldn't resist leaning down again to kiss him tenderly, on the lips this time, his own smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"So it was 'ordinary' you were taking issue with?" John teased him when he pulled away. "I think it is true, Sherlock; I'm quite a typical person in most respects."

"Rubbish," Sherlock retorted brusquely, sounding more awake by the second as he worked his way into an argument. "Anyone who can tolerate me as a flatmate, much less love me as you seem to, is far from ordinary, John. Donovan would tell you that you are certifiably insane."

"Oh, and Sally Donovan's word is to be taken as gospel. She was so right about you," John snapped. The words came out harsh, harsher than he meant them to, as he remembered not only Donovan's accusations before Sherlock's fall, but also several very vicious and quite possibly slanderous things she had said to reporters afterward, until someone had put a ban on all Scotland Yard employees giving interviews about Sherlock.

He tried to pull away, upset with himself for getting angry and breaking the lovely cocoon they had created, but Sherlock was having none of it, bringing his arms around John's upper back so that he couldn't move without pulling at Sherlock as well.

"What did she say to you?" Sherlock demanded, and his voice was determined, his keen eyes taking in John's face and expression, and John knew that once Sherlock and Sally saw each other again, the detective would be having words with her.

"Nothing. Everything. Everything she has said before and more besides. And not to me, but to the papers. I didn't want to see her face after you died, and it's a good thing I didn't. It would have taken all of my self-control not to lose my temper in front of half the Yard, or hit her, or do something equally reprehensible," John said bitterly. "She deserved it."

"I don't doubt it," Sherlock said tightly. "She never has liked me, and I've made no secret of the fact that I neither like nor respect her. She saw her chance to get back at me and took it. All the better for her that I was supposedly dead and unable to defend myself. She must have been delighted."

"Oh, she was," John agreed. "Why is it that she dislikes you so much anyway? Apart from the obvious 'piss off' factor? I know why you dislike her; she's downright cruel to you."

"She doesn't like that I'm an 'amateur,'" Sherlock said, the air quotes clear in his voice. "She doesn't like that the Yard needs a consultant because there are cases they can't solve. She doesn't like that I'm a 'freak' with reasoning powers far beyond her own. She's like many of the people I attended school and uni with; she doesn't like people who are smarter than she is or who she can't understand. I am both." His voice was simultaneously cutting and brittle, and it hurt John to hear it.

"You're not a freak," John said heatedly. "Don't ever say that again, and don't you dare believe it. I want to give her a piece of my mind every time she calls you that."

"She's hardly the first," Sherlock replied, old pain still visible in his eyes, and it amazed John all over again that there were people who thought this man did not feel. "You, my dear John, are one of the very few people who has only unreserved admiration for my skills, and I still fail to understand how it is possible."

Sherlock's eyes warmed as he finished, looking at John, and John smiled.

"It's possible," he said, "because you are brilliant and deserve to be recognized for it. You're also beautiful, and compassionate, and temperamental, and arrogant, and a tiny bit mad, and I wouldn't have you any other way."

Sherlock kissed him then, softly and gratefully, and they grew lost in each other for a few minutes before John spoke again.

"Lestrade was demoted after everything happened, did you know that? It was Donovan and Anderson who made him go to his superiors in the first place; their suspicions were the reason the Yard tried to arrest you, and then Greg was their sacrificial lamb. They did a thorough reprimand for everyone you ever worked with, but they made Greg the poster boy for what happens to those who bend the rules – and then they all looked like fools when it turned out you were innocent and he was right."

"They gave him his position back, I hope?" Sherlock asked sharply, and John nodded.

"They did. It hasn't been easy going for him, though – there were a few people who stood by him and you, but there was a lot of resentment stirred up over your supposed guilt, and even more surfaced when those who had been glad to see Greg go down had to watch him go back to his former position. You know that there are some people who will use anything to their own advantage."

"If Lestrade was demoted, they could try to use the power vacuum to advance themselves," Sherlock reasoned quickly, and John nodded.

"There were several people who did exactly that, and then it was all undone when Greg got his rank and credit back. Some of the Yarders haven't really forgiven him for that." John paused, shamefaced, and sighed. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have lost my temper before. It's just – this year has been horrible, Sherlock. Greg's had a terrible time, and people have said awful things about you, and it was all I could do to just keep myself going. I avoided all of the media after the funeral, but it was hard to ignore all of the time. Donovan and everything she said about you is a sore spot."

Sherlock pressed lightly on John's shoulder blades, easing him down so that his head was resting on Sherlock's sternum, and John felt Sherlock's hands card through his hair. He waited for any sign of discomfort in Sherlock's body language, worried that his weight would be too much, but it didn't come, and he slowly relaxed, listening to the familiar deep voice in his ear. "That was the one advantage of being gone – I didn't see any of the media fallout, and Mycroft was wise enough not to tell me any details. I asked if everyone was fine, occasionally, and he knew that 'fine' meant alive and breathing and minimally functional and responded accordingly. Otherwise, I focused everything I had on finding and eliminating Moriarty's associates. It was the only way I could bear it, most of the time," Sherlock said quietly.

"Sherlock," John said gently, "are you okay? And I don't mean physically, though we'll take care of that," he added as Sherlock opened his mouth. John rested a hand against Sherlock's cheek, lifting his head to look the detective in the eyes. "I mean, are _you_ all right? From the sounds of it, you killed quite a few people in the last year, and despite what you do for a living, actually killing people is not your area – or wasn't, a year ago."

To John's surprise, Sherlock's lips turned up. "Well, to be fair, they weren't very nice people."

Caught off guard, John laughed as his own words from the night he shot Jefferson Hope were parroted back at him, and he felt Sherlock shaking under his fingers as well, the detective's low chuckle sending another rush of happiness through him. God, he had missed this.

"There's something wrong with us, you know that," John said, once he had managed to get his giggles under control. "Laughing about crime scenes and murders and assassinations."

"Normal is _always_ boring , John," Sherlock said, still smiling. "And the fact that you can laugh with me at crime scenes and assassinations, among many other things, makes you the most extraordinary person I have ever known."

John could tell that the bought of laughter had been painful for Sherlock, and he moved off Sherlock's chest and lay back on his side, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock took John's hand that had been on his face and slipped it between both of his own, speaking earnestly.

"There are a number of things I regret about the last year, John, but killing those people is not one of them. It was not enjoyable; it was meticulous, exhausting, dangerous work – but it meant that you were still alive. It meant that Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were still alive. More importantly to the larger world, it meant that Moriarty's web could not reconstruct itself, and that you and I would not be dealing with some terrifying disciple of his a year, or two years, or five years from now. I did not want that for myself, or you, or us, on the very rare occasions I dared to hope that there could _be_ an 'us.'"

"I should have been with you," John murmured, guilt heavy in his voice. "I was trained to do that sort of thing; I could have helped you."

"You could have," Sherlock agreed, one of his hands still running soothingly through John's hair. "But even if I had told you, if you were prepared to leave everything and go with me, would you have sacrificed Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in order to do so? For that is more than likely what would have happened, John. Even if you had still been there to see the fall, once you disappeared after my death, all the rules would have been off. Someone in Moriarty's organization would have made sure of it, probably Moran. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would have been dead in a few weeks, or a few months, once they realized where you had gone – and we would have been looking over our shoulders at every turn. They would have followed us, and possibly alerted everyone we were trying to catch unawares."

John nodded. "I understand, Sherlock, I really do. Sometimes a lone operative is the only way to get a job done, and you created the perfect illusion, so that no one would be looking for you or see you coming. That doesn't mean I have to like it," he said, with a pained smile that was closer to a grimace.

"I didn't like it either," Sherlock confessed, his eyes dark and haunted as he looked at John. "I hated thinking about what I had done to you, and I hated being without you and away from you. It was harder to think, harder to breathe. Everything was more difficult."

"I thought breathing was boring," John teased softly, but he knew Sherlock heard the catch in his voice.

"It is," Sherlock declared emphatically, his arms tightening around John again. "Even more so when one's chest feels like nothing so much as an aching void."

John blinked as tears burned behind his eyelids, and he raised himself up on his elbows to kiss Sherlock, softly and slowly, losing himself in the aching tenderness of it, the sweet friction of their mouths moving together, and cataloging every small noise they both made, until he pulled away with a sigh, framing Sherlock's face in his hands and keeping their eyes locked.

"I had that feeling every day you were gone, and for all I knew I would feel that way for the rest of my life," he whispered. "All of this," and he waved a hand to indicate them, the bed, their proximity, "should feel strange, but it doesn't, and even if it did I wouldn't _care_, because I love you, and for the first time in a year that void is gone. And for the record, I don't 'seem to' love you, as you said before that unfortunate segue into Sally Donovan's highly unprofessional behavior. I love you. I'll tell you whatever you want to know, but I need you to believe that."

"I do," Sherlock affirmed, his mouth curling up as he brushed a hand over John's cheek. "More data on several points would be appreciated, however."

"Gladly, as long as I'm allowed questions, too," John said, stretching to try and get the blood flowing to his muscles. "But after we've had some tea and breakfast, please."

"Heaven help the force that tries to get between John Watson and his tea," Sherlock said irreverently. "Willoughby will be delighted that you're force feeding me."

John twisted around to glare at Sherlock as he sat up. "I'm not yet, but I will if I have to. You need to eat, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how bad you look?"

"I looked a good deal worse before you saw me yesterday, but I am aware," Sherlock said sardonically. "And you're hardly one to talk, Dr. Watson. You've lost a stone and a half in the last year; you've been working long hours at the surgery, which helps with your limp and tremor but has repeatedly aggravated your shoulder; you sleep little and when you do it is frequently interrupted. Need I go on?"

John's mouth fell open, but he promptly shut it again as resignation covered his features. "I'd forgotten what it's like to be on the receiving end of that. I'd say it was amazing, and it was, but it's also rather embarrassing," he admitted, looking down. "I . . . haven't really bothered to take care of myself either."

Sherlock reached out and touched his forearm, both in apology and in silent supplication. "Willoughby makes incredible omelets. Shall we?"

John smiled, understanding the gesture, and reached for his robe. "God, yes. Oh – wait there just a minute," he said hastily, remembering something. He placed a quick kiss on Sherlock's forehead before darting out of the room, leaving a mystified Sherlock for approximately thirty seconds before he reappeared. In his hands was Sherlock's blue dressing gown.

"Something else I kept," John said, his words muffled against Sherlock's lips. "I thought you might be wanting it."

"As always, I underestimated your brilliance," Sherlock answered, kissing John back softly, between words. "My dressing gown does make everything so much more delightfully dramatic."

* * *

When they reached the living area of their suite, Sherlock called down to the house kitchens and asked the butler for a cheese and broccoli omelet for John, and one with cheese, mushrooms, tomato, and basil for himself, along with tea and toast, yogurt and muesli. He raised an eyebrow at John as he finished, who nodded approvingly at him. There were plenty of nutrients, grains, and protein in everything, all ingredients their bodies both desperately needed. Sherlock thanked Willoughby and hung up, and John found himself studying his friend as Sherlock walked back over to the breakfast bar.

"Willoughby should be up in roughly seven minutes. He abhors serving cold food," Sherlock stated, but broke off when he noticed John's speculative look. "What is it?"

"You're different here," John stated, his tone fond but slightly perplexed. "Maybe just different, I don't know. More relaxed? As though you feel – safer? Not something I ever thought I'd see in you when you're in Mycroft's house."

The exhaustion returned to Sherlock's eyes again, and John felt a pang in his chest for having brought it back. "Safety is appealing when one has spent every hour of the last year, waking and sleeping, either shooting or expecting to be shot. I wondered more than once if I was feeling as you had felt in Afghanistan, that constant feeling of pursuing and being pursued. Much as I usually relish it, it is grueling to live with as a continuous companion. But I'm not sure safety is the right word."

Sherlock sat and took John's hand. "Perhaps contentment is what you're sensing? I admit it's not something I have felt very often in my life, and I am still getting used to it," he said with a small smile. "But I have been in more countries and donned more disguises in the last twelve months than I ever thought would be necessary or even possible. By the end, I had worn so many faces that I had almost forgotten what my own looked like, and I wanted desperately to be myself again."

John tightened his fingers in wordless understanding, and Sherlock went on, his voice low and soft with emotion.

"Before I met you, I would have lived for nothing but that chase, John, just as I lived for every case, for the thrill of the puzzle and the hunt. This time, I lived for it because there was no other choice, because if I wanted my heart to stay whole, then I had to ensure you stayed alive. If I wanted to come home, then you had to be here to come home to. Even if you had hated me, had moved on, had refused to see me, it would have been better than coming back to a London where you did not exist."

"The hard part was not the actual killing, not most of the time," Sherlock continued. "It was the searching, and the waiting – interrogating people, follow trails, finding out where a particular operative was, making my way through corporate high rises and slums and everything in between. Seeing the worst side of humanity, the side that most people don't ever see, don't even know exists. Being filthy and tired and hungry, moving locations every night, changing my appearance constantly. I have been heartsick and so very tired, and I am through, for the moment, with pretense and disguise."

Sherlock's voice was gravelly and almost inaudible when he finished, and John simply leaned in and kissed him, too moved to find adequate words at first. He let Sherlock sag against him, let Sherlock simply rest on him as the detective released some of the weight he had been carrying for far too long.

"You _are_ home, and you _are_ safe, and you never have to pretend with me or hide from me," John whispered finally.

Sherlock's arms came around his waist and held. "I know."

Their solitude was interrupted by a knock and the rattle of breakfast dishes, and Willoughby came in with the same cart as the night before, now laden with covered plates, bowls of yogurt, a steaming pot of tea and mugs, several kinds of juice, milk, toast, and muesli – in short, enough food to feed a small army, John thought in amusement.

"Good morning Master Sherlock, Dr. Watson," Willoughby said with a smile. "I trust you slept well?"

"Better than I have in ages, Willoughby, and that's a fact," John said cheerily, putting some effort into his tone. "Sherlock insisted I had to experience the wonder of your omelets, and I have to admit I'm starving."

Willoughby waved a hand as he started unloading the contents of his cart onto the counter and breakfast bar. "Sherlock exaggerates, Dr. Watson. He's always had a soft spot for my omelets; I made them once when he was ill as a boy, and he's irrationally persisted in thinking they're magical, when in fact they are very simple. One of the few things I can cook well and don't depend on the cooks to do."

"I most certainly do _not _exaggerate, Willoughby," Sherlock disagreed, taking one of the stools for his own. "I'd had pneumonia and was utterly miserable. In bed for days, my whole body aching, my throat sore. I had hardly been able to eat anything and had next to no appetite anyway. Then you coaxed me into eating a plain cheese omelet, and it was the most magnificent thing I had ever tasted. Given the number of appalling omelets I've had since, not to mention how many omelets of _yours_ I've eaten, I think I'm well qualified to say that your omelets are culinary perfection."

Willoughby laughed. "You're going to be terribly disappointed, Dr. Watson, really," he said, shaking his head.

John smiled. "Somehow I'm inclined to side with Sherlock on this one, Willoughby. He is so seldom irrational, especially with his praise, that I think you fail to recognize your own talent."

Willoughby just shook his head again. "Well, judge for yourself then, before they get cold."

Sherlock had already begun to dig in, and his expression told John that he was savoring his food in a way he very seldom did. The doctor took his first bite and very nearly moaned; the omelet was fluffy, creamy, and hot, and almost disintegrated in his mouth. John chewed and swallowed carefully, then fixed Willoughby with a sharp look.

"Are you sure you didn't have another career as a chef, Willoughby? That was quite possibly the most extraordinary bite of omelet I have ever tasted."

"My father was quite the accomplished cook, Dr. Watson. He may have taught me a thing or two," Willoughby admitted, his lips twitching.

"I knew you were holding out on me," John declared, pointing his fork at Willoughby.

Sherlock cocked his head. "How was it I never deduced that your father was a chef?"

"I was in my early twenties when I began to work for your family, Master Sherlock, and you were only five," Willoughby responded. "Hardly at the height of your reasoning powers."

"Oh, so they didn't spring into being fully formed?" John asked teasingly, taking another bite of omelet.

"I was a precocious child but not _that_ precocious, John," Sherlock said reprovingly, trying to look superior and failing.

"Precocious enough to be several years ahead in your reading, vocabulary, and cognitive skills, however," Willoughby remembered.

"Of course," Sherlock said airily. "I demanded that Mycroft teach me chess."

Despite himself, John almost choked, and he swallowed quickly. "Did he?"

"He did – although it was under protest," Sherlock said. "I threatened to tell Mummy about the girl he fancied."

John was profoundly thankful he hadn't continued eating; he could almost feel his eyes bugging out of his head.

"_Mycroft_ fancied someone?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not; don't be ridiculous, John. I could convince Mummy that he did, though, and plant evidence to make it look like he did, and he knew that I could. Mummy would have been insufferable." He flashed John a wickedly mischievous grin, and John couldn't help but grin back.

"Not for the first time, I am so thankful that you did not bend your mind to a life of crime," he said.

Sherlock hummed, the smile lingering on his face. "It's far more fun outsmarting the criminals," he answered.

"I'll leave you two to your breakfast, but don't hesitate to call if you need anything, gentlemen," Willoughby said, gathering up the miscellaneous dishes and utensils that were no longer needed but leaving the rest of the repast.

"Thank you, Willoughby. You are a master at omelets, and you'll never convince me otherwise," John complimented him. The butler shook his head, but he was clearly pleased, and John and Sherlock shared an amused glance as he left. John reached for the cup of tea that Willoughby had thoughtfully poured, and they both finished their omelets, toast, and yogurt in comfortable silence. John pointedly handed Sherlock more ibuprofen, which he took without protest, draining the last of his second mug of tea.

They worked in tandem to clean the kitchen, moving around each other in much the same way they had in Baker Street, putting things in the fridge and piling dishes neatly in the sink until the counters were clear and open once more.

Sherlock took John's hand as they finished, threading their fingers together.

"We should go up on the roof," he suggested quietly. "It's beautiful."

"Won't it be a bit – cold?" John said hesitantly, and Sherlock smiled mysteriously.

"Come and see," he said, and led John out the door, their hands still linked together.

* * *

Although they had taken the stairs the previous evening, it turned out that there was an elevator, and when its doors opened on the top floor, John frankly gaped at the room in front of him.

It was a rooftop conservatory and garden. The room that opened out from the elevator was encased in glass on all four sides, oak hardwood spreading out at their feet, a curved roof over their heads, and light streaming in and illuminating a breathtaking view of London, even on day such as this one when a thunderstorm seemed imminent. There was a large couch and a gas fireplace in the center of the room, as well as several oversized armchairs. Two end tables held lamps with carved wooden bases and stained glass shades. On the far side of the enclosed room there were double doors, also glass, and beyond them John could see an outdoor terrace with raised garden beds that were mostly dormant now, but must have been breathtaking in the height of summer.

"Sherlock, this is incredible," John breathed, trying to take in everything at once.

"The best room in the house, I've always thought, although Mycroft is almost never up here," Sherlock said, satisfaction tingeing his voice at John's agreement. He moved into the room and turned on one of the lamps, then flicked the switch for the fireplace, and the room immediately felt cozy, the warm light a pleasant contrast to the dark gray sky outside.

Sherlock held out a hand from where he stood, and John immediately went over to him. They wrapped each other up, wordlessly, standing in front of the fire with Sherlock's head bent over John's.

"You still have questions," John whispered eventually.

"Yes," Sherlock acknowledged, his voice just as quiet.

John looked up at him and smiled, reaching up to brush curls out of Sherlock's eyes. "Ask, then," he said tenderly, affectionate understanding shining in his warm blue eyes. "You'll drive yourself crazy until you do. It doesn't matter where you start. I meant what I said before; I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Sherlock's eyes flickered, and John saw the thousand questions, saw Sherlock's relentless mind sorting through them, looking for something that would give him a place to begin without asking too much at once.

"That first night at Angelo's, were you asking me out?" Sherlock said finally, the question blunt but his eyes intent on the answer.

John laughed, his voice still quiet, and slid his hands up to rest on Sherlock's shoulders.

"No. I really wasn't," he answered. "I was trying to suss you out – I'd known you less than a full day and I was already fascinated. And there was something . . . appealing about having a friend who was as unattached as I. I had so few people in my life, and not anyone I was close to, and I hadn't met a single person who understood why that was."

Sherlock frowned. "What else did people expect? You'd left your whole unit behind in Afghanistan, you didn't get along with Harry and still don't, you hadn't stayed in touch with your friends from med school because the army took over your life. Were people really so imbecilic as to just believe that you would come home and have a whole network of people waiting for you?"

John smiled again, but it was tight and grim this time. "It's what they expect of most returning soldiers. They aren't prepared to deal with someone who has made military service his whole life, with nothing outside of it, and then gets invalided home."

"Yet more proof that people are stupid and blind," Sherlock muttered angrily. "Ridiculous."

John touched his cheek. "Thank you for the indignation on my behalf – but I found you because of that stupidity, more or less," he reminded Sherlock. "While I would love to help solve that particular problem in some way, at some point in the future, can we shelve it for the moment?"

Sherlock nodded, his brain already visibly whirring into gear again. "While we're on Afghanistan – there wasn't anyone you . . . cared for, while you were there? While you were in the army?"

John gave a thoughtful sigh, his lips tightening as he searched for words, and then he looked up at Sherlock. "Let's find a more comfortable position to be in, before I explain. You shouldn't be standing for so long, and this could take a while," he said. He took a step over to the couch and arranged himself on it, laying on his side with his back against the back of the couch and leaving much of the wide seat cushions for Sherlock, who promptly laid down with his head on the arm rest. The fireplace provided warmth for them, and the lamp cast a warm glow over Sherlock's features that made John's heart speed up.

"Now, then," John said, resuming running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, which was rapidly becoming one of his favorite things in the world to do. "Trust you to jump into a complicated question without even realizing it."

Sherlock frowned again, for the second time in as many minutes, bafflement covering his face as he looked at John. "Knowing your previous sexual partners is complicated? How is that a difficult question?"

"It isn't so much the questions itself as everything that comes with it," John returned, unperturbed. "Because that question is tied to a million others, all of which I had to sort through in the last year in order to understand what I felt for you. The short answer is that I had numerous partners, all women, all briefly, and only when I wasn't in an active warzone – when I was on leave, usually. I was also constantly aware that there could have been more, of either sex – I had plenty of offers."

Sherlock nodded, but his thoughts had clearly taken a different turn thanks to something John had said; his eyes were searching John's face as though he was trying to answer a riddle from the Sphinx.

"You thought I was dead; why would you bother trying to sort out your feelings for me after that? Why would it matter?" Sherlock winced as the questions left his mouth, recognizing his habitual tactlessness that was A Bit Not Good, but John simply took Sherlock's face in his hands.

"It mattered because you mattered, because you were everything. You _are_ everything, and if I didn't know it before that day at Bart's – and I think I did – I certainly knew it when I was looking at your corpse."

The aching tenderness in John's words took any sting from them, and for a moment the pair of them simply looked at each other, and John could see and feel the mutual comprehension, the recognition of the other's suffering, that passed between them. Though Sherlock had been halfway across the world in the last year, being away from John had been an agony as wrenching as John's grief.

"John," Sherlock said hoarsely, his voice full of need and guilt, and John leaned down and kissed him passionately, silencing whatever objections or apologies he had been about to make. He only pulled away when they were both breathless, putting his lips next to Sherlock's ear.

"Sherlock," he murmured, "I love you, and I know enough for now about what you were doing and why you felt you had to do it. I'm not angry. I was when I first saw you, and I can't promise I won't be again, but we have both been hurting, love, far more than we should have been, and I want it to _stop_. I've thought about this conversation for so long, thought of every single thing I should have realized and should have done, and I want to tell you as much as you want to know."

Sherlock watched him for what felt like an eternity, his eyes calculating and weighing the truth of John's words, verifying John's sincerity with a gaze that felt like fire before he finally tilted his head in acquiescence.

"So you had multiple partners in the army, but no one serious or long-term," he prompted, returning them to the earlier thread of their conversation.

"No," John agreed. "You might think that it's easy to find . . . companionship in the army, but I never thought so. There are the anti-fraternization rules, for one – no officers are supposed to become involved with regular enlisted men and women. Although those rules were broken occasionally, it was always difficult for anyone who did, and even worse if they were found out. And I was a doctor; it felt like a conflict of interest to be involved with anyone I might have to treat. The battlefield and the hospital always came first; that's how the army works. Regardless of who I was with, I had to be able to do my job. I got very good at compartmentalizing, keeping any kind of personal life away from the battlefields and the field hospitals. It was easier."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "You spent every minute of your life with the people of your unit; wouldn't it have made more sense to find someone you could be with all the time?"

John shook his head. "I didn't think so then. Do you remember," he said slowly, "when I was so angry with you during the first Moriarty case? Before the pool? You had said that caring about the people he was holding hostage wouldn't help save them, that you wouldn't make that mistake."

"I remember," Sherlock sighed, his voice pained. The arm that was draped around John's waist tightened in belated, silent apology.

"It took me ages to figure out what you meant; I didn't really work it out until after you were . . . gone," John said. "But then I realized it was like performing surgery. When I was repairing injuries, I put every thought of the person on the table out of my head. I focused on the details of their body, on the tissue and organs and blood vessels under my fingers. I could see the pieces more clearly, do a better job of repairing them, if I didn't think about who I was working on. It takes a certain amount of detachment, and that's even more true when there are bullets and mortar bombs trying to demolish the building around you."

Comprehension dawned in Sherlock's eyes as John spoke. "Cases are very much like that, yes."

"I applied the same principle to my personal life," John said. "I kept it separate from the unit, separate from my job, separate from the guns and the killing and the healing. That isn't to say that I didn't care for the few women I was with," he added hastily. "I did. I didn't divorce myself from them emotionally; that hardly would have been fair. But I found them away from the combat zone so that I could function in it when I went back. I could focus on the work, not the human lives that were linked with mine. The unit and the job were my life, but I kept intimacy outside of it."

"The members of your unit were your friends, your brothers-in-arms, the people you worked to save. You shared the battlefield with them, the danger, the adrenaline high - but your sexual partners gave you a detached place of safety, something away from the rest of your life," Sherlock processed aloud.

John cocked his head, considering. "Yes. I doubt I ever would have put it into those exact terms, but yes."

"And you never took up an interested man on his offer when you were on leave? Weren't you the least bit curious?" Sherlock asked in disbelief, and John chuckled.

"Most of us don't think of everything in experimental terms, you know," he said fondly. "And anyway, even that was a bit more complicated than you think. Not legally speaking, of course, but for me personally. I _was_ curious, occasionally. There were people in my unit who were gay, and a few more who were probably bisexual. I could never bring myself to try, though, even on leave, even when the man was attractive – and a few of them were very attractive."

Sherlock thought about that, and John let him think, wondering if he would come to the correct conclusion. He very often did, but not invariably, and to John at least, this piece of his own heart had not been obvious, had taken thought and memory-digging and mental confrontation before he understood his own reticence.

"It's to do with Harry," Sherlock said finally, slowly, after several minutes of silence. "It has to be about her, but I don't quite see how."

"I will never stop being astounded by you," John said with a shake of his head and a smile. "How did you work that out?"

"Not in any way that's as neat as I'd like; it's closer to a guess than I'm ever comfortable being," Sherlock answered, his voice disgruntled but his eyes full of warmth at John's admiration. "You and Harry don't get along; you liked Clara but Harry divorced her; you've made it clear you don't agree with a lot of Harry's decisions, and alcoholism runs in families, which means one of your parents likely had the same problem and passed it on to Harry. There's a lot of tension and bad history there, but she is still your sister. I would think that when she – what is the expression? – 'came out,' it went less than well. You tried to help her with your parents but were not really successful."

"All true," John confirmed candidly. "Harry was a teenager when she told my parents she was a lesbian, and 'less than well' doesn't even begin to cover their reaction. They didn't throw her out, but they did everything but – shouted at her, called her every offensive name in the book, told her she was going to hell, told her she was disgracing the family, made it clear she wasn't to bring her girlfriend home, gave her the silent treatment. I was in college at the time and came home when I could to try and talk some sense into them. They wouldn't hear any kind of reason. I let Harry come and stay with me when she needed to, just to have a place where she could get away that wasn't her girlfriend's house. She refused to let them beat her – she called them names right back, shouted right back, refused to speak to them either. She had every right to react that way, but none of us ever really got over it. It went on for months, Sherlock – and even when my parents started talking to her again, they spoke to her like she was a complete stranger, only worthy of politeness. I couldn't believe they could behave that way toward their own daughter. Our family was never perfect, but they let their hatred tear it apart. I stayed away from them as much as possible after that, though I tried to keep up with Harry."

"But the trauma of it stayed in your subconscious," Sherlock said lovingly, compassion in every line of his face as he ran his fingers through John's hair. "You couldn't bring yourself to go through it all again, so you ignored the handful of times you found a man attractive, even though no one in your family would have known."

"Something like that, yeah," John admitted. "I didn't even realize I was doing it, at the time. Idle curiosity hardly seemed like a good enough reason to sleep with someone, either, not when I had never felt anything _more_ than that for a man. It seemed unkind."

An extraordinarily uncomfortable expression fleetingly crossed Sherlock's face, then, but it was gone before John could analyze all of its parts. He tucked it in the back of his mind for later; there was something there he needed to know.

"Always the honorable soldier," Sherlock observed. "That is one of the few ways in which you _are _predictable, John. You try to do the right thing, the kind thing, for almost everyone."

"I suppose it's the doctor in me," John said. "I think of it like karma. There's more than one way to help people heal."

"And what extraordinary thing did I do, in this life or any other, to deserve you?" Sherlock murmured, his eyes full of quiet adoration as he looked at John.

"I could ask the same question," John replied in a whisper, his throat thick but his eyes reflecting the same emotion as Sherlock's.

"What changed? When did you know?" Sherlock breathed. Their foreheads were touching, now, their hands resting on each other's cheeks, and part of John wanted nothing more than to kiss Sherlock again, have Sherlock kiss him back until they were lost in each other – but he had promised Sherlock answers, and the answer to this question needed to be said, even though it wasn't going to be easy.

"When did I know I was attracted to you, or when did I know I was in love with you?" John said carefully, wanting to clarify the question. "Because those are two very different things."

"Either. Both," Sherlock said, giving John his own shy smile, and then John had to kiss him, briefly and smile in return. He would never get tired of seeing Sherlock's true smile.

"Well, I had my attraction to you rather ungraciously thrown in my face, if you remember. You were there. It wasn't the most pleasant way to realize it."

Sherlock searched his mind for a split second, his eyes closed, before they blinked open again in certainty. "The power station."

"The power station," John agreed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of _Sherlock_; it all belongs to the BBC, Ryan Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note**: Everyone has been so kind about this story, and I am so very grateful for the positive comments. I apologize for the delay! It took me as long to write the first third of this chapter as it had to write the first three chapters together. These two have a hard time talking about The Woman; she seems to cause tension whether she's actually present or not. My RL has also been incredibly hectic, and my lovely beta (WickedforGood13) had to talk me through some of the rough patches. Thank you for your patience!

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**Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Four**

"You'll forgive me if I don't share your fondness for Miss Adler," John commented dryly. "She had an unfortunate way of turning my world on its head."

"She did seem to have that effect on people," Sherlock agreed, his tone bordering on hostile as he thought of the dominatrix. "You weren't the only one."

"I never thought I was," John said, giving him a knowing look.

"'Fondness' is not the word I would use," Sherlock retorted, returning the look with interest.

"Oh, really? What word would you use, then?" Despite the effort John made to keep his voice even, the question came out sounding defensive, and he cringed, turning his face away and rubbing the bridge of his nose. If only he could eradicate his own insecurity so easily.

Sherlock's fingers came to rest lightly on his jaw and turned John's face inexorably back toward him. John couldn't find it in himself to resist. "John," he said, and John felt some of the tension drain from him as his own name washed over him like a caress. He opened his eyes and found Sherlock gazing at him intently, his expression so open and unguarded, so unreservedly loving, that it made John's heart contract in his chest. "Did you ever see me look at Irene Adler in a way that was anything close to how I am looking at you?"

"No," John managed in a whisper. On the contrary, John had never seen Sherlock look at _anyone_ the way he was currently looking at John, as though John was utterly necessary to his continued existence.

"And can you imagine that I would tell Irene any of the things that you've learned about me in the last eighteen hours or so?" Sherlock continued, his voice still almost unbearably gentle.

John almost snorted at the idea; as it was, his lips twitched. "No," he said again, his voice a little stronger.

"Why not?" Sherlock pressed, and John knew the question wasn't rhetorical; Sherlock was trying to make a point.

"Because with the two of you, it's about besting each other, about constantly having the upper hand," John said swiftly, surprised at how easily the answer came to his lips. "You both want to win, all the time, and that doesn't lend itself to vulnerability or intimacy. It creates an enticing game, yes, lends itself to sex, maybe, but not to something sustainable. Neither of you would share anything that would give the other an advantage."

"Exactly," Sherlock concurred, clearly pleased at John's insight. "The word I would use is 'fascinating'; Irene is fascinating the way any worthy adversary is fascinating. She is incredibly intelligent as well as being beautiful, and her first concern is always self-preservation. She is interested in power for the sake of protection, not for the sake of causing chaos – remember, it was Moriarty who had to tell her what to do with all of the information she held – but she is ruthless in pursuing her own advantage. She is a cunning dealer of information, but not a consulting criminal. I admired her talents – and _not_ the ones she used as a profession," Sherlock clarified emphatically, his lips curling in distaste.

"But the text noise on your phone," John said hesitantly. "Why would you keep it?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers, clearly choosing his words with care. "To remind myself who I was dealing with."

John gave him a blank look. "Okay, you've lost me."

Sherlock sighed. "I was as . . . discomfited by Irene's attraction as you were. Her attention was . . . unexpected, all the more so for being blatant and obvious and not something I could fend off or insult away. I didn't understand it, and it was unsettling." John made a mental note of that, too; that was the second thing Sherlock had said in the last few minutes that begged for more explanation. Why would he automatically push away anyone who was interested in him?

"The text noise reminded me that Irene dealt in sex and attraction for a living, that she always had an agenda, that she got her way by knowing what people _like_," Sherlock went on. "Not that the reminder really helped me in the end; she succeeded in making me look like a complete fool," he said acrimoniously, his voice full of self-recrimination. "She still got what she wanted, at least as far as information was concerned. When she found she couldn't get physical satisfaction from me in the usual ways, she handed me a puzzle, and when have I ever been able to resist that?"

John stroked Sherlock's cheekbone with the backs of his fingertips, a soft gesture of absolution. "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock. Or if it was, it only serves to prove that you are occasionally as fallible as the rest of us. Irene's life was threatened, or so we thought. It made sense to try and help her, even if you didn't trust her. We also thought she had important information – and it turned out she did. That much was right. Ultimately, you kept everything from becoming a disaster – you cracked the code on her phone; you got Mycroft everything she had before she could use it. That counts for a lot, even if there were mistakes along the way."

There was a crack of thunder right then, and John jumped, not expecting the sudden noise. He looked up as rain began to hit the glass above their heads and around them, leaving the clear walls spattered and prismatic. Sherlock ran his long fingers over John's own, tracing the shape and feel of John's hand, sending shivers of pleasure through John's arm and soothing him simultaneously.

"I trusted Irene too quickly, not because of her attempts at seduction, but because I was wrong about how unwilling she was to be bought," Sherlock said meditatively. "She _was_ willing; her price was simply much higher than most other people's. That list she gave to Mycroft would have left her safe, anonymous, and wealthy for the rest of her life. It was Jim who bought her, really; once she had accepted his 'advice,' he would have demanded that she follow through with the information about the flight of the dead. Her life _was_ threatened, but by _him _rather than American terrorists or either the British or American governments. As usual, her interest in self-preservation won out over everything."

"I was so angry during that case," John admitted quietly. "That entire case – _everything _about our interaction with her upset me, and I despised her for it. I was angry at her for hurting you and lying to you, angry at her for presuming to think that she knew you better than I, angry at her for forcing me to see my own foolish blindness, and angry and humiliated that you had overheard all of it."

Sherlock's brows knitted together. "Was it just that she made you question your orientation, when you had never truly questioned it before? Or that her profession made you uncomfortable? I can see being angry at her for what she said in the power station, especially when you realized I had overheard, but why the whole case?"

"Irene seemed to . . . disrupt everything, the moment we walked in her door," John said reluctantly. He had known this was going to be difficult, but it was even more painful than he had imagined, admitting these things to Sherlock, who was watching him with his customary penetrating gaze. "Disrupt everything you and I had spent the previous months building: our friendship, our working relationship, our balance. I . . . didn't know how to react. It – hurt, feeling as though I mattered less than she did, and I was . . . scared. I didn't want to . . . lose you, lose what we had, lose the life that was the only thing keeping me sane. And I – Christ, this sounds pretentious, since I don't know when your feelings changed – but if how I felt around Irene was anything close to how you felt around any of my girlfriends, then it's no wonder they annoyed you so much."

John blew out a long breath. He felt so exposed, articulating these particular thoughts aloud, that it was all he could do not to fidget, and he was unbelievably grateful when he felt Sherlock's fingers slide through his in a firm grip.

"I knew Irene unnerved you and made you worry about me – and I imagine Irene can make just about _anyone_ feel off-balance physically, including you, if she can manage it with me - but I didn't realize how insecure she made you feel about our friendship," Sherlock said reflectively, his eyes remorseful. "Your place in my life was so obvious to me that I tended to forget you didn't see it. I didn't help you see it, usually, at least not until Baskerville."

"_I don't have friends. I've just got one."_ The memory made John smile, and he pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead again.

"And just so you know, you aren't entirely wrong about the girlfriends," Sherlock conceded grudgingly, humor and petulance battling in his expression. "I didn't want our partnership disrupted any more than you did - but they weren't worthy of you, either," he insisted, sending a glare at John. "Dull. Pedestrian. Even Sarah, who I liked more than the rest – and you weren't really invested in them anyway."

"I wasn't," John acknowledged, and Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "That goes back to – well, let me finish my thoughts about Irene. I'll get to the rest. At the time, I forced all of that turmoil surrounding you and her and our friendship into the back of my head. I didn't want to think about what any of it might mean, and so I focused on the fact that I was worried _for _you. That might seem ridiculous and patronizing, but I _was_ worried. I didn't want Irene to hurt you, I spent every day waiting for it to happen, and I was furious when I thought she had succeeded."

"She didn't," Sherlock countered instantly. "Not the way you thought. I was angry at her for making me look a fool –hated her for it for a while, in fact – but I was never in love with her. Intrigued by her intelligence, yes, but I never cared for her. When we first thought she was dead, when she sent me her phone to make her death convincing, I pitied her."

"_Pitied_ her?" John said incredulously. It was hard to reconcile the idea of pity with Irene Adler; she was not someone who invited or seemed to deserve that particular emotion. "Why?"

"For getting in over her head, for being too confident in her own cleverness. Having information you can't decipher and don't understand is a very dangerous game; anyone who wants that information is going to assume you _do _understand it and know what to do with it. I thought she had become a victim of her own protection scheme."

"Well that's . . . understandable, I suppose," John said, still trying to wrap his head around it. "I can't say I ever pitied her, even when she really was dead."

"She isn't," Sherlock said bluntly, and John stared at him, sure he had heard wrong.

"She – what? She's dead. She was beheaded by a terrorist cell."

"She's not and she wasn't," Sherlock said imperturbably. "I saved her, through a rather convoluted escape plan that involved substituting myself for the man who was supposed to be executing her."

"Mycroft told me – he _told me_, that day he came to see me and I gave you her phone, that it would take you to fool him."

"A rare actual coincidence, then. He still doesn't know, unless he's acquired the information somehow in my absence. I was owed a favor by someone in the NSA, and Irene is now doubtless a very skillful operative for the Americans, with her former identity wiped clean."

"You are unbelievable," John said, shaking his head. "Absolutely unbelievable. How did you get away with that without me knowing about it, and more importantly, _why_ did you do it in the first place? You just said that you hated her – which _I_ told _Mycroft _that day, by the way."

"I did hate her, or as close to it as I am ever likely to come, and I was furious with her – but in the end, I saw her as yet another of Jim's victims. She didn't deserve to die," Sherlock explained. "She was foolish enough to do business with him, true – but up until that point she had never attempted to harm anyone with her information. She kept it for her own protection but never used it. I realize there is an argument to be made about her gathering such information in the first place, and I agree that it is a dubious moral decision at best. Irene likes power, or she never would have become such a visible and sought-after dominatrix. However, Jim undeniably used her, and then I foiled her, and had neither of those things happened, she probably never would have been in mortal danger to begin with. I wasn't sorry I saved her, especially not considering everything that happened afterward. Had she not already been safely under the protection of the NSA, Irene probably would have been one more person in the snipers' crosshairs, simply because Moriarty wanted to be rid of her."

"So you went to Karachi, disguised yourself as an executioner, and somehow got Irene out of the country – and when did all of this happen?" John asked. "How did you keep me from knowing you had gone?"

"It was the weekend you went to that medical conference at the University of Edinburgh," Sherlock said. "You were already out of the country, so it was easy enough for me to be as well, and I knew you would have been angry if you had been home."

"Of _course_ I would have been angry," John said heatedly, his voice rising. "Sherlock, you could have been killed! And for Irene Adler, of all people, who certainly didn't seem to have any compunction about putting us in danger or feeding you to the wolves."

Sherlock waved away that objection unconcernedly. "It was the right thing to do, John, and she was grateful; I would guess it's one of the few times in her life she has truly been grateful for anything. She isn't used to people being altruistic."

"Grateful. I'm sure she was," John muttered darkly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake, John. Jealousy does not become you, especially when there is absolutely nothing to be jealous _about_. I made it perfectly clear to Irene why I helped her, and pity for her wasn't the only reason. I also saved her life because that conversation you had with her in the power station gave me hope, the first hope I had that we could be _this_," and Sherlock leaned up and kissed him firmly, emphatically, "and not just flatmates and best friends."

It took John a moment to find words; he was, frankly, a bit gobsmacked. "You couldn't have led with that?" he said finally, indignant.

"I suppose it would have been a bit easier, yes," Sherlock said, amused, and John knew that was as close to a concession as he was likely to get.

"Git," John grumbled, though there was no hurt behind it.

"You – you never did explain why that conversation made you realize you were attracted to me," Sherlock said, and his voice was hesitant again, his eyes focused on their hands rather than on John's face. "Why were her assumptions, her implications, so different from anyone else's? Plenty of other people had assumed we were together."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand reassuringly, letting his eyes slide closed as he remembered his argument with Irene.

"_You __**flirted**__ with Sherlock Holmes?"_

"_**At**__ him. He never replies."_

"_No, Sherlock always replies, to everything. He is Mr. Punch Line; he will outlive God trying to have the last word"._

"_Does that make me special?"_

"_I don't know. Maybe."_

"_Are you jealous?"_

"_We're not a couple."_

"_Yes, you are. __There. 'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"_

"_Who - who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay."_

"_Well, I am. Look at us both."_

John could still hear Irene's mockery, of herself and of him, and he had to swallow down the reflexive anger – but what had been even more unnerving, at the time, was the sympathy, even the empathy, that lay underneath her knowing tone. She had been out of her depth with Sherlock, as caught off guard by her own attraction as John had been by his.

"She admitted she was attracted to me, then said that you and I were already, essentially, a couple, then that she was a lesbian, and finally implied that you were also attracted to me," Sherlock catalogued reflectively, in that uncanny way he had of catching John's thoughts.

"She did," John said slowly. "And it was the last bit, when she said that she and I were in parallel situations, that I really had to think about and confront honestly – in my own head, anyway, if not to her," John clarified, his resentment of Irene still smoldering. "I had always thought of myself as straight, and she had always considered herself lesbian – which, in practice, meant that she and I were both attracted to women and not to men – yet according to her, we were also both attracted to you, despite our declared preferences. And I knew, in that minute between when she sent her text and your phone went off, that she was completely right. I thought about it for much longer afterward, but I still knew then. I couldn't refute what she said at all – and I hated her for stripping me so bare. It left me terrified of the same thing I had feared during the whole case – that I would lose you. Only it would be my fault and not hers, since I couldn't deny _wanting_ you anymore."

Sherlock's fingers let go of his, only to come up and rest on the back of John's head and stroke through his hair.

"Did you really think I would hate you?" Sherlock questioned, his voice low and pained. "Even if I was sure of what you felt, even if I did not feel the same, did you think I would so easily sacrifice our friendship over something you could not help? My only friend?"

John's eyes were dark, and it took him a minute to articulate the thoughts in his mind. He knew how much they might hurt, even though they were no longer applicable. "No, I didn't. But I couldn't see a way forward that wouldn't end badly, except to remain as we were. As far as I knew, as far as I could guess, you were still my best friend who was 'married to his work' – or you were my best friend who might be falling for Irene. Neither scenario really boded well for me. It seemed safer not to deal with the attraction at all, even once I realized it was there."

Sherlock drew John's head down until it rested on his shoulder, and John closed his eyes in contentment as Sherlock's hand ran through his hair.

"We were both such _idiots_," Sherlock said, and his voice was sharp, impatient, annoyed at the memory of his own failings, a complete contrast to the tenderness of his touch. The dichotomy amazed John all over again, that Sherlock could simultaneously convey such love for him and yet censure himself so harshly. Despite the "we" that began his sentence, John knew that Sherlock was not upset with him, but rather, upset with the combination of circumstances and miscommunication that had prevented them from realizing their mutual feelings sooner.

"I loved you so much, even then," Sherlock continued, his voice breaking, "but I was terrified, John, and it completely impaired my ability to see you clearly, to see what should have been blatantly obvious. I was so scared of what I _could_ feel for you, if I allowed it, and the probability that you would never feel that way about me, that I did everything I could think of to resist and ignore my own emotions. You had already changed me in ways I hadn't thought possible – I had let you inside my walls, against all my instincts, all my better judgment, almost without understanding why I did so. I was so _drawn_ to you, you were so interesting and essential from the beginning, that I wanted to know more in spite of myself – and then you kept surprising me, admiring my deductions, refusing to believe what others said about me, refusing to spy on me. Even when I annoyed or angered you, you stayed. That night at the pool – " and here Sherlock had to stop and get his voice under control " – when I thought for those few seconds that you had betrayed me, or worse, that you _were_ Moriarty, it felt like someone had shredded my heart to ribbons. And then, realizing you were covered in Semtex – if I had ever thought I didn't have a heart, I was soundly proven wrong in those few minutes."

"You were so frantic when you tore it all off," John murmured. "I was surprised by that, but I took it as proof that you really did care about me and consider me your friend. Would you really have shot the vest, sent the place up, if Moriarty hadn't gotten that phone call?"

"I was prepared to do it, yes," Sherlock said evenly. "You had agreed, and I could see what you intended to do. You were going to throw yourself into me and send us both into the pool, and there was a decent chance that we would have escaped the worst of the damage. I trusted you, and it would have gotten rid of him."

"I'm sorry I was so hard on you," John apologized softly. "I hadn't figured out, yet, that enjoying the game didn't mean that you didn't care. I was afraid you admired his cleverness too much, that having a worthy adversary was too much for you to give up."

"That was partly what I wanted you to think," Sherlock confessed. "Maintaining an image as a sociopath means that fewer people are inclined to try and get close; they see what they want to believe, which is all to the good since I can tolerate so few people on a continual basis. Not that you ever believed that diagnosis anyway," he added perceptively, and John laughed, his voice muffled in Sherlock's dressing gown.

"No, I didn't," he agreed. "You don't process things the way other people do, that's certain, but it's part of what makes you so extraordinary – and I rather thought the opposite was true, that projecting sociopathic behavior and convincing yourself that you felt less than you actually did helped protect you from hurt, or at least made the hurt bearable."

"It was a defense mechanism I learned very young," Sherlock whispered, and John sat up to kiss him, following a gentle kiss on his mouth with kisses to both his eyelids and the tip of his nose.

"Do you know when I knew for certain that I loved you?" he whispered back. "I didn't name it, not even to myself – I couldn't – but I felt it. It was just at the end of the Baskerville case, the morning we left Dartmoor. You said you understood why the Cross Keys owners didn't kill the dog, and I said you didn't, and then I realized that you had locked me in the Baskerville lab."

Sherlock opened his lips, looking sheepish, but John set a finger over his mouth before he could speak. "I was angry at the time, Sherlock, but the point is that I couldn't _stay_ angry. You had locked me in a lab and completely terrified me in order to test a theory about some _sugar_, and yet in some corner of my brain that wasn't filled with frustration, I found it endearing that it was so hard for you to admit to being wrong. I also felt rather sad that you clearly felt you had to be perfect all the time in your conclusions. It's no wonder, not when you grew up competing with Mycroft, but it saddened me nonetheless."

"And then," John continued with a smile, "you stood up and _joked_ with me. You shook off your irritation at being mistaken, you used that old line from _Flying Scud_, and the only thing I could feel in that minute was ridiculous, giddy elation. I realized right then that I was the only person you did that with. We giggled at crime scenes and joked after cases, and I had never seen you do that with anyone else. For some inexplicable reason, you chose to share that beautiful part of yourself with _me_. I might not have been able to admit it, but that was the moment I knew I loved you and wanted everything with you."

"You are one of the very few people with whom I ever felt safe enough to share those things," Sherlock answered quietly. "Laughter makes one just as vulnerable as any other emotion, and normally I detest being vulnerable in front of others – but you laughed with me that very first night, and I felt safe. Safe and _seen_ for the first time in a long time."

"That makes two of us, then," John said, smiling as he echoed Sherlock's comment from the night before, but his eyes were utterly serious instead of teasing, deep blue as he looked at Sherlock, his love written all over his features, and this time the detective leaned in to kiss John, his full mouth soft against John's. John hummed contentedly in the back of his throat, then sighed as Sherlock's tongue brushed over his lips. He opened his own mouth so that his tongue could meet Sherlock's, and they spent several glorious minutes simply tasting each other.

When they both finally pulled back, mouths soft and kiss-swollen and smiling, John saw that Sherlock's eyelids were drooping, despite his best efforts to keep them open, and he smiled, pressing a hand to Sherlock's cheek.

"You should sleep, love," he murmured. "I know we've only been up for a few hours, but your body needs the rest in order to heal. I need to call Mrs. Hudson and go over to Baker Street, and you can have a good sleep while I'm gone."

"Bloody transport," Sherlock muttered crossly, but the comment lacked its usual bite. John knew he really was exhausted, or he would have been protesting much more vehemently.

John shifted himself, preparing to climb carefully over Sherlock, but Sherlock gently caught his wrist.

"One more question, John, please?" Sherlock's eyes were intent, and John could see how important it was to him; it was almost the same look he got just before fitting the final piece of a solution into a case, but with the specific, laser-like focus he reserved just for John.

"Of course," John acquiesced, settling back down and rubbing soothing circles over Sherlock's wrist with his thumb.

"You admitted you weren't truly interested in creating relationships with any of the women you had dated while we were still at Baker Street," Sherlock reminded him. "Why not? It can't possibly have been because of me, not at first."

"Ah," John said with a warm smile. "I did promise to explain that, didn't I?"

Sherlock scanned John's face and the corner of his mouth turned up, amused and frustrated in equal measure. "What are you keeping from me, John Watson? You look as if you have the most delicious secret but want nothing more than to tell it."

John laughed. "That's true. I also can't decide whether you're going to be delighted or annoyed, or maybe a little bit of both."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up, but he waited, and John laughed again, sensing the barely-restrained impatience that Sherlock was holding in.

"It _was_ because of you; I just didn't see it at first," he began. "The first time I met Mycroft, when he kidnapped me after you left me in Brixton, it alarmed me how much he knew about me – and he was able to tell that I missed the war, rather than being traumatized by it, that I missed feeling useful in a crisis and being someplace where my skills were needed, all from the fact that my left hand _wasn't_ trembling."

John had expected some derisive comment, but Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he said, "No matter how often or how greatly Mycroft and I disagree, his abilities are extraordinary. They always have been."

John stared at him. "I feel like I should write that down, preserve it for posterity."

"Don't you dare; he might actually find out I said it, then," Sherlock said with a quick grin.

John raised an eyebrow. "With the way he has this place wired, do you really think he didn't hear that just now?"

Sherlock scowled, glancing up and around for the cameras that were surely hidden somewhere in the room, but he was unable to locate them from his position on the sofa. He settled for tipping his head back on the arm rest and calling out, "Don't get used to it, Mycroft!"

The pair of them promptly dissolved into giggles, shoulders shaking, and the laughing fit lasted until Sherlock caught his breath with a pained gasp.

"Damn it. We really should try to avoid having you do that," John said anxiously, moving off and away from Sherlock as much as he could, given the tight space he was in on the sofa.

Sherlock deliberately took a deep breath and then another, a tight line of pain marring his forehead. He kept breathing until his shoulders relaxed and his breathing pattern became more regular, and he smiled at John as the tension went out of his muscles. "It's worth it."

John smiled back and kissed him before resuming his explanation. "The other thing Mycroft said actually turned out to be more important, at least to me. He said, 'When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see he battlefield. You've seen it already.'"

Sherlock _did_ snort at that. "And he thinks _I_ have a flare for the dramatic."

"It's a Holmes family trait, I think," John said, once again tenderly brushing Sherlock's curls out of his eyes. "And he wasn't wrong. I had seen it, and God knows we saw enough of it afterward. But I didn't realize until much later why it mattered, why walking a battlefield with you made me feel _whole_. Sherlock, right from that very first night, you were suddenly someone who was classified as part of my unit, someone I had to protect and keep alive at all costs. The difference was, when I was with you, I didn't need a place of safety. Safe or not, the only place I wanted to be was next to you."

"_Oh_," Sherlock breathed, almost inaudibly, and it made John's chest ache with a fierce happiness to see the realization on Sherlock's face, the wonder in his eyes as he made the connections. "I . . . allowed you to integrate everything. The soldier, the doctor, the crack shot. The need for adrenaline. And we had become such close friends so quickly, even though neither of us trusts easily. You went looking for intimacy outside of the battlefield out of habit, and later because you thought I wasn't interested, not because you really needed anything outside of us."

"Yes," John said simply. "And when I realized how much I cared for you, how much more I felt for you than friendship, it seemed ridiculous that I hadn't realized it long before, hadn't seen how and why it came about. You were my unit, and therefore my work, and so your Work became mine, your battlefield became mine – but you were also my life, my heart, the person I was closest to, the person I wanted to know absolutely everything about. You kept me safe, in every way, even in the middle of the battlefield – and my heart was yours long before I knew I had given it away," John finished.

Sherlock drew him close again, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other around his shoulders as John rested his head on Sherlock's chest. Only when Sherlock's lips were pressed again John's hair, and his nose buried in the soft gold-grey strands, did he respond.

"I said once that I would be lost without you. I had no idea how true that would become," Sherlock whispered. "Before you, I never imagined that I could love someone so much."

John smiled against him, sure that Sherlock would feel the movement in his facial muscles. "I know exactly how you feel."


End file.
